


Lemuria

by tb_ll57



Series: Lemuria [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M, post - endless waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 234,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years after the Barton Rebellion, Preventers find themselves facing new enemies and new questions in the Newtype Programme.  They solicit aid from the one Newtype who may agree to help: Quatre Winner.  Time has changed him, however, and a straightforward case becomes a new lense into the past as they unravel the tangled history of the Newtypes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place twenty years after EW, in AC 217.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Like words plucked from his mind. Those were conversations he'd had, words that had been spoken, thoughts he hadn't yet allowed to the surface. Despite himself, he feels hope tightening his throat. Winner can do everything his file says he can do. It's possible._

  
 

  
It's damn cold in St John's.

He parks in a slush of mud and snow on what passes for the road. The wind is intimidating, rather, buffeting him to deaf and numbness in seconds. He hovers in the shelter of his car door, hesitating, questioning himself; and then he makes a run for it, because it's that or freeze. He skids on ice, scrapes an elbow against the old brick of John Cabot Centre For Recovery, flings-- is flung-- against the big iron doors. He jabs a cold-clumsy thumb into the buzzer, three times, and puts his badge to the eyehole.

'Agent Toru Craft,' he shouts. 'I'm here by appointment.'

After the bitter thunder outside, the Centre is a cave of echoing stillness. His heels crack on the slate tile floor, while the nurse's rubber soles go by with quiet squeaks. They pass doors that lead to stairwells, stairwells that lead to shivering glass windows, windows that throw grey relief on their passage. It's not much warmer inside than out.

'He's there,' his escort says, nodding her plump chins at the door that reads 314. 'He's been told you're to see him, yeah. Don't know what help he'll be.'

He pauses now, too, one finger on the latch, wondering. 'He's uncooperative?'

'He's rimmed,' she answers shortly. 'But that's Preventers' business, I reckon. I'll be bringing tea at half past.' She's gone with nothing more to say, rounding a corner and disappearing like a ghost.

The handle depresses silently at his touch. Light, at least, bright and cheerful orange, so that he straightens without realising it, warms to it. Warms. It's quite comfortable in this suite, and that crackling is flame, real flame. A homey hearth, with a big oak frame and pictures. His shoes dig into a wool rug, as he crosses the floor to reach for the digital album. It's on a touch sensor, and reverts to a family portrait, a husband and wife surrounded by their tow-headed children, six of them. Girls, and real beauties. He smiles looking at it.

'My sister, Iraia.'

The album rattles as he drops it. 'Sir,' he says, and fumbles his badge from his pocket again. 'I'm Agent--'

'Toru Craft. I had your letter.' There's grey in the blond hair, the same steel shade as the pilled cardigan that falls off the man's straight shoulders. Steel in the mouth, too, with no hint of the ready smile from the old vids. Quatre Winner puts his hand in his pocket, the other on the mantel, and says quite politely, 'And my letter wasn't lost in the post. I asked you not to come.'

'Respectfully, sir--'

'To do what?' Winner interrupts. 'Telepathically seize criminals from the air? I believe I explained it doesn't work like that. This is not modesty. I can't help you.'

'Sir, please at least hear me out.'

Winner's eyes are a clear ozone blue, narrowed in focus on Toru's face. He interrupts again. 'You're wasting your time here. Your commander was right. I'm useless, I'm a diversion-- I'm a crazy has-been-- you're just trying to prove yourself-- desperate enough to try anything--'

Like words plucked from his mind. Those were conversations he'd had, words that had been spoken, thoughts he hadn't yet allowed to the surface. Despite himself, he feels hope tightening his throat. Winner can do everything his file says he can do. It's possible.

'No,' Winner says sharply, and turns away from him, sinking bonelessly into one of the deep chairs. 'You're not going to be dissuaded so easily.'

In the silence then Toru inhales deeply, regroups. Reframes his agenda, rethinks how he needs to ask what he came to ask. 'Does my presence pain you?' he asks finally. 'You seem ill.'

'Thank you for your concern,' Winner says, toneless now, chin propped on his hand. It doesn't hide the trembles in the fingers. 'You're a child. How old are you?'

'Eighteen.'

'Barely.'

'Barely,' he acknowledges. Uninvited, but not refused, he takes the other chair by the hearth, tucking his damp coat between his knees. 'My birthday was two weeks ago.'

'You've only been a Preventer--'

'A year. I joined on probation.'

Winner's eyes search his face. Toru takes a breath, and lets him, sitting quietly, sitting calmly, trying to clear his mind as if he were meditating. Yes, it's urgent. It's urgent, but he came all this way, and he can take the time it needs, if it means success.

Whatever Winner finds in him, it produces an uncertain frown. Then Winner closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. He says, 'Take it from someone who knows. You never escape the name.'

Toru blinks. He hadn't expected that. 'The name?'

'Craft,' Winner says. 'Shortened from Peacecraft.'

If he hadn't believed it before, he believes it now. There's no other way for Winner to know that. 'That's not why I shortened it,' he begins, and lets it trail into silence, because he doesn't even entirely know what he's explaining. 'It's just a name.'

'You don't want to ride on a famous name. Fair enough. You don't want to be known for your parents' crimes. Fair enough. You want to prove your worth on your own. I know what it is to want that. I know what it is to be driven to do it. But what you don't know yet is that you're only running away from it.'

'You don't know that, sir.'

'I'm not reading it off the pages of your soul.' Winner rubs at his head, presses at the spot between his brows. 'You even shortened your given name. Toru--'

A log in the fire cracks in half, and falls through the grate. He jumps. Winner doesn't.

Toru says, 'I want to show you the file. Or at least let me tell you what's happening.'

'You're stubborn, when you think you're right.'

'From all appearances, sir, so are you.'

The shiver of golden eyelashes might be surprise. Or amusement. After a moment's pause, Winner puts out his hand.

Toru unwraps the reader from its weatherall and plugs in the data carrier. When it lights the screen on a 'Top Secret' flash, he presses his thumb to the bio-scan. With a soft beep, it clears him. He hands the reader to Winner, and traps both hands between his knees in the folds of his coat. Every breath is impatient, but he tries to contain himself, to clear his mind again. He focusses not on Winner's expressionless face, but on the loose button there on his cardigan. He's a well-dressed man, in his file. Tailored shirts, expensive and fashionable suits. There's a trace of that left, in the Winner before him today, but just a trace. The shirt is a decade out of fashion, with a folded and pointed collar, not the simpler mandarin collar that most men wear these days. But it's ironed, and it suits him, the collar open at the throat, the curl of a scarf folded just so. Whether he wanted a visitor or not, Winner isn't some recluse who lets himself mole away. That might be reason to hope, too. It's better than he expected, coming here.

Winner looks up. Toru straightens.

'You think he's a Newtype,' Winner says.

'Yes, we do. We've been unable to retrieve his entire military file, but it's likely--'

'Destroyed. Alliance wouldn't be the only ones who'd want that out of the light of day.'

'Yes. But not being able to get at his file says enough, in my opinion. Why erase what isn't suspicious?'

'The Newtypes are unstable. Universally.'

'I don't believe--'

'I'm telling you,' Winner returned evenly. 'I know of no Newtype who hasn't reached the limit of their... endurance. The abilities overwhelm the host in late adolescence. There is no known way of controlling it. If your murderer is a Newtype, he may not be able to stop himself, but he'll certainly be able to stop you. He might wipe out a few city blocks when he feels you coming.'

Toru laces his fingers and clamps them tight. 'All the more reason for you to help Preventers catch him before we reach that point, Mr Winner.'

'I don't hunt my own kind,' Winner says, and tosses the file back at him. 'That's Eileen with the tea. She won't come in. Go get the tray.'

Only a second passes between the last word and the knock at the door. Toru wets his lips. He rises, and goes to the door. It's his escort from earlier, still sullen and hostile, but now trying to peer around him into Winner's suite. Toru has to pull the tray out from her hands. He doesn't let her see around him. He shuts the door in her face, and leans on it until he can hear her go.

He had his arguments marshalled and ready long before his plane landed in Canada. He has more now, persuasions and even begging ready to go, more convinced than ever that he was right to come. But standing there holding a tea tray, staring at the back of Winner's old chair in this dismal place he's hidden himself, Toru abandons all of that. He closes his eyes, and listens to the rain outside. He'll be lucky to make it to his hotel in that kind of system. His plane won't launch until it's clear.

He sets the tray on the small dining table, and pours two cups of strong black tea. 'Sugar and milk?' he asks over his shoulder.

'Please.'

He drops a cube of sugar and drips a cloud of cream into Winner's cup, and repeats it for his own. He carries both with him back to the fire. When he serves Winner, Winner purses his lips as if he's holding something in, and says merely, 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.' He resumes his seat, and sips his tea. He says, 'In my defence, Thorulf is a pretty terrible name.'

'What?'

'Thorulf. That's my given name. It was my great-grandfather's.' He sips again, and sets his cup and saucer on his knee. 'But in the realm of Peacecraft names, at least it lends itself to shortening.'

His reward is uncertain and tentative, but it's real. Winner smiles. He hides it behind the porcelain rim of his tea.

'Do you consider yourself a moral man, sir?'

'Agent Craft, I think I've been clear.'

'I think you've been swallowing your own bullshit. If you try and it doesn't work, that's one thing. It's unacceptable to just not try at all, when you can save lives. You're not on your deathbed. You're not incapacitated. You're just tired and petulant. Those aren't good enough reasons not to try.'

'Get out,' Winner says.

His hands are cold. His gut is cold, but his head is hot. He has to sit breathing for a moment before he can make himself do it. He puts his cup on the mantel, puts on his coat. He belts it with a furious knot, and stalks to the door.

'Agent.'

'What.'

'That pen there. Bring it.'

On the little table by the door. A trio of pens in a cup, with a pad of old-fashioned paper. Toru brings them both, sticks them out at arms' length. 'Any other errands for me?' he asks coolly.

Winner uncaps the pen with his teeth and writes in quick, bold scratch across the pad. 'Have these with you when you come back tomorrow,' he replies, and tears the sheet from the pad. 'And if you speak to me like that again, Preventer or no, I'll take you over my knee.'

It-- is happening. He can't believe it, for a-- then he does, and bites his lips to stop himself from grinning. 'Now that I know it works, sir, I'll save it for special occasions.'

'Get out, Agent.'

'Yes, sir.' He crams the paper into a pocket, and sketches something a little more like a bow than a nod, in his hurry to get back to the door. He slips out before Winner can say anything else, change his mind. He fumbles his phone from his pocket, has to shake his hands out to stop them from tingling with relief. He dials his commander, and paces, jiggles in place as it clicks and clicks through the connections, then finally rings.

_'Po. Any news, Toru?'_

'Yes, ma'am,' he says smartly. 'We've got him.'

 


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Winner toys with the headphones, wrapping the cord around his wrist. His head is bowed, and he doesn't look up at Toru. 'If you had my ability, this thing in your head, you'd use it for good. That's what you think. Every ounce of you thinks it. You'd trade with me in a heartbeat, just now.'_

'That him?'

'Yes.' Toru twists in place to check the car. Yes. Winner is still sitting there in the passenger seat, bundled in a thick coat against the winter chill, almost invisible behind black sunglasses and big muffs. If he notices he's the subject of conversation, he doesn't indicate it. 'He's-- having a difficult morning,' Toru says.

'By which you mean he's not going to come out here and work with the rest of us,' Po determines. She checks the time on her watch, and grimaces. 'He can't slow us down.'

'He won't. I'm confident he can do this, Commander.'

'For both our sakes, I hope you're right.' She gives him a tight smile and squeezes his shoulder. 'All right. Brief the team, and then let's get moving. If we lose this slimeball, I'll never forgive myself.'

'Yes, ma'am.' Toru waves at Winner, to indicate he'll be another minute, and follows Po into the shelter of the storefront where Preventers have set up their ops centre for the day's activity. The chatter falls silent with Po on the scene, salutes snapping out crisply, fourteen pairs of legs going straight at attention.

'Agent Craft will fill you in,' Po introduces him. 'I'll be at Ops coordinating the search. When we get a location from Craft, we move on it, no second-guessing.'

'I'll be with Winner all day,' Toru begins, and clears his throat to try it again with more confidence. The faces of his fellow agents aren't universally blank with professionalism. He's too young for this, years younger than even the next youngest, and for that alone they'd be wary of him. But it's Winner they don't trust, and he doesn't have time to argue them around. Po is the only reason they listen to him at all. And Po is right-- if it tanks, if they spend days at this and come up empty-handed, if it was a waste of time they can't afford to waste--

But there's no time to think of that. It's a gnawing worry at the back of his mind, but he refuses to let it to the fore-front. They don't trust him, but they have to act like they do, and that's enough for the moment.

'We'll drive around the city following a cross-grid pattern,' he says, tracing the path on the map with a laser pointer. Heads follow his progress. 'Winner's effective radius is only about forty or fifty feet--'

'Forty feet?' Ricciardi interjects. 'You'd have to go building by building for that to work.'

'Except when it comes to Newtypes,' Toru finishes, and drops the pointer to the desk. 'You know about the Newtype Flash. Supposedly they can sense each other nearby. And Winner thinks he wouldn't have to be any closer than within the same neighbourhood. Ivan Rzhevsky was last seen in Clerkenwell, so we're starting there, but we want teams near the sites of all the other murders. According to the psychological profile, Rzhevsky is likely to want to revisit the scenes of his crimes. Once the thrill of the last kill starts to fade, he tries to jumpstart the high, tries to remember how good it felt the last time, but eventually it won't be enough. He'll need a new victim. The gap has been narrowing between kills. The last one was three weeks ago today, which means we've got a window of maybe three days before he finds a new victim. If we're going to nab him, it'll be now. Refer to your files for the full victim profile, but be on the lookout in particular for women aged early twenties to early thirties who are homeless or vagrant.'

Po is nodding along. She stands next to him, arms crossed over her vest. She adds, 'I'll say what everyone is thinking. Our vics are coming from the most vulnerable population possible. Homeless are all but invisible and there's no sure way of tracking them or even identifying them, and it makes them the easiest targets a sick perp could ask for. Show them Rzhevsky's picture, warn them to be careful, be clear why we're trying to find this man-- we need cooperation and we need them to know we're trying to help.'

'And if Winner senses Rzhevsky?' Ricciardi prompts.

'Then the four units nearest divert to Craft's coordinates. I want everyone else to stay on the grid, in case it's a false alarm, in case he has means for escape. And if we don't have anything by 2100, we reconvene here to change shifts and brief the new teams.'

'I have a question.' Micheko, diffidently leaning on a desk, who waits for the agent in front of her to move out of the way, waits for Po's acknowledgment. 'What if Rzhevsky senses Winner before Winner senses him?' she asks.

'It's a risk we have to take,' Po answers. 'Newtype abilities vary. Even if Winner only gets close enough to positively ID him, we're still ahead of where we are now.' She waits, but no hands rise. 'All right. Get moving.'

Toru blows out a breath slowly, and shakes the nerves out of his hands. His first team lead. Sort of. He's not really leading, Po is; and yet it's close enough. His responsibility.

Micheko waits for most of the crowd to disperse, and halts at his side on her way to the door. 'I heard you had to dig him out of a mental institute,' she murmurs.

'He voluntarily committed himself. And it wasn't a mental ward, it was a long-term care hospice.' With her ponytail pulled high, the mike in her ear is visible. He reaches before he thinks to stop himself, to tug a wisp of her dark hair over it. He takes a careful step back.

There's a tiny hint of dimple in her cheek. She says, 'You'll be fine, Toru.'

'Yeah.' He puts his hands in his pockets, to stop himself from anything else stupid. 'Be fine, yourself.'

It's almost as cold in London as it was in St John's. The brief jog from shop to car is enough to make his teeth chatter. Winner starts when he throws open the door and slides in behind the wheel. The heat is on, blasting, and Toru strips his scarf and coat open to take full advantage of it. 'You drink coffee?' he asks Winner. 'There's a fresh pot in Ops.'

'No. Thank you.'

Though Toru warms quickly, Winner looks frozen solid. He huddles in his coat, his gloved hands are clenched on his knees around the iPod Toru had given him. The music pumping to the big earphones is jarringly loud-- heavily instrumental, a clash of cacophonous sound that must be deafening Winner. Yet he's pale, tension eating lines into his face even behind those dark glasses.

'You all right?' Toru asks him. He taps Winner's arm for attention. 'You need to go inside?'

'It's the city.' Winner presses his thumbs into his temples. 'There's so many of them.'

'So many what?'

'People. All of them--' Winner breaks off, staring ahead as Preventers agents, all in plainclothes, make their way to their cars. 'They're expecting you to fail,' he says. 'Me to fail.'

'This is a hard case to be part of,' Toru explains. He pulls the car out of park, and eases into the street. They'll lead the way, the others fanning out behind them. 'It isn't that they expect to fail. They're afraid they will. That we will, yes. That someone else will be hurt because we couldn't do what we're supposed to do.'

'Catch the bad guy.'

'Yes.'

They go no more than fifteen feet before they hit a red light. Micheko is in the car behind him. He thinks he catches her eyes, for a moment, in the rearview mirror.

'She's pretty,' Winner says.

He glances across the seats. 'Who-- what?'

'The girl you're thinking of. She's pretty, the way you see her.'

He rubs her face out of his brain as quick as lightning. 'Maybe I should have got coffee. It will be a long day.'

Winner drops his head back to the seat. 'I apologise. That was rude.'

'No. Um-- just, concentrate on Ivan Rzhevsky.' The light goes to yellow, and he eases over the line. Green. 'Do you want the file? It's on the backseat. You could look at it, get some sort of-- whatever. Psychic energy.'

The rusty exhale beside him is possibly a laugh. 'There's no such thing as psychic energy,' Winner says dismissively. 'Not that I've ever encountered. No-one's personality lingers on their possessions. That sort of silliness is for people who pretend at being mediums or ghost-whisperers. There are no seances for speaking to the dead, either. I don't know what happens after death, but it doesn't involve sticking around to leave clues about serial murderers.'

'Oh.' They reach a junction, and Micheko's car turns off at the first right. Toru takes the round-about to the fourth. They're officially on their own, now. He punches the microphone on the steering, and says, 'Craft checking in. We're headed for Clerkenwell. We'll check in again when we arrive.'

_'Understood, Craft.'_

There's a tiny sliver of silence, and then a new song starts on the iPod. A haunting slow melody. Toru listens without thinking about it, until it occurs to him that he knows the tune. 'What is that?'

'Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven.' Winner leans his head on the window, and covers his eyes with a palm over his glasses. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's all right. You want me to put the iPod into the speakers instead?'

'No. There's just so many people.' His slump is wretched. He's sweating. Toru doesn't ask him any more questions.

Traffic is light enough, after the morning rush hour, and they make good time to Clerkenwell. At first he glances hopefully at Winner every other second, but Winner barely moves at all, and the Moonlight Sonata has become something that sounds awfully like a Beatles album. Toru follows the grid plan, driving under the speed limit as much as possible, letting himself catch every red light. He tries to swallow his frustration as the silence goes on and on and on.

They've been driving almost an hour when Winner finally speaks again. 'I'm sorry,' he says softly. 'I don't think that he's here.'

'Are you sure?' It's out of his mouth before he can stop it. 'Sorry.'

'Can we stop a moment?'

'Of course.' There's a pub just ahead, and he parks kerbside, and turns off the engine. 'Do you want me to get you something to eat? Maybe some bread or something dry?'

'Did you get the pills?'

Winner's list of supplies had been short. Music, industrial headphones, glasses, and now these. Toru opens the travel bag, and takes out a bottle of migraine medication. He breaks the seal and shakes out two tablets. Winner takes them from him, and swallows them dry, curling back to the window with a hand clenched in his hair.

'What's it like?'

Winner strips the headphones, and then the glasses. Toru drops the shade for him, but Winner only sits with his eyes closed, squeezed tightly shut. Toru thinks maybe a better option would be booze, if it could get Winner to relax at all.

'It clouds me,' Winner interrupts, responding before he can even really complete the thought. 'Don't worry about it. I expected this to happen. It always happens.'

'This is why you were at the Centre.'

'When I started-- when I realised this is what it would always be like--' Winner draws a shallow, shaken breath. 'I asked him to just-- take me somewhere. We drove. We just-- drove, until we reached the ocean. St John's. And I wrote them a cheque and I just-- never left there again.'

That wasn't in the file. Toru tries not to actively think about it, tries not to feel curious, but Winner's head rolls toward him anyway.

'You're very courteous,' Winner says then. 'Most people aren't that disciplined, you know.'

'Disciplined?'

'Your mind is trained.'

'I meditate frequently.' He flexes his hands on the wheel, and drops them into his lap. 'Commander Po-- Sally-- she's a friend of my family-- she taught me a long time ago. For serenity and insight.'

'You said Sally, but you were thinking of your father.'

'What is it like?' he asks, avoiding that. 'Reading people.'

'It's not like reading.' Winner rubs his eyes, and slips his shades back on. 'Most people don't think in words, not really. Snatches of them, at most. It's more like-- feelings. Impressions. Impulses. Sometimes images, but images with meaning attached to them, and none of it is solid, really. If I concentrate, I can make sense of it. But when there's so many people around, it's like a whirlwind.'

'And the music? That helps block it out?'

'Nothing blocks it out but distance. The music is just a thread to hold onto. A rhythm I can count on. This playlist-- it's all music composed in unusual time signatures. Benjamin Britten, Alexander Borodin, Pierre Boulez.'

'John Lennon.'

'And Don Ellis.' Winner's lips turn up in a spasm-like smile. 'Modern music isn't very helpful, generally.'

'But you can try to hear just the perp. Rzhevsky.'

'Maybe. Sometimes I can do it with people who aren't Newtypes. If I know what to listen for.'

'Screams of tortured women.'

'I thought the point was for me to find him before we got to that.' Winner reaches for it, but Toru is faster, and he uncaps the water for Winner to drink. 'Can we walk?' Winner asks suddenly. 'I need air.'

'Sure.' He catches the locks for Winner to let himself out, and taps the phone on the steering. 'We're taking a break,' he calls in. 'Winner's unwell. I'll try to keep it under ten minutes.'

There's a light drizzle of rain starting. It comes in gusts, no more than a mist of damp, but it adds to the unpleasantness of the day. It's grey out, all the way up to the sky, and what people are forced to be out in the weather walk with their heads down and hats low. Winner stands out, oddly, a still figure on the pavement, his head level as he turns in a slow circle. The wind makes their hair, one head the yellow of a wheat field and one the bone white of moonlight, dance and curl. Toru hooks his behind his ears, and pulls his cap lower.

'There,' Winner says, pointing.

An alley by the warehouse, three blocks ahead. A van drives down it while they watch. 'There?' Toru clarifies. He surrenders with reluctance. It won't take long, surely. 'All right.'

'You were the one who wanted to find me,' Winner says then, as they fall into step. Toru has longer legs than Winner, though their height is almost the same. He slows to accommodate the older man. 'Something about this case made you think of me.'

'When we began to realise Rzhevsky was a Newtype. There's only so many who are known.'

'And only so many who would be willing to assist Preventers.'

He acknowledges that with a dip of his head. 'As you say.'

'Your career is on the line. If I don't pull a rabbit out of my hat, you'll take the fall.'

Winner's right in that, whether it's a guess or something Toru has let through. Carefully, he says, 'I like making a difference. I didn't think of you solely because you're a Newtype. I thought of you because I knew you're the kind of man who understands putting everything you are on the line, if it's the right thing.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means-- I would think you would understand. You flew a Gundam.'

'Ah.' Winner slicks his hair back with a hand as wind gusts wet into their faces. 'That was before your time. What do young people even know about that now?'

'More than the official version, and less than what our elders could tell us.'

Winner stops walking to look at him. Toru takes his elbow, and guides him off the kerb as the cross a side-street.

'Do you ever have contact with them?'

'With whom, Mr Winner?'

'Your parents.'

His mind must not be that disciplined at all. He tries to think solely about the street in front of them, their destination ahead of them, Rzhevsky and the case. 'The terms of exile are strict,' he says shortly. 'There's no contact, unless they revoke their official opposition to the government. And even if they did, I suppose they'd only be jailed, and nothing would change.'

'I thought perhaps they'd make an exception, for familial concerns.'

'They did. My parents wouldn't risk compromising me. And to agree to even that much would legitimise the government, in their eyes, wouldn't it? I've never heard from them, or from anyone else on Mars. I don't imagine I ever will.'

He removes his hand from Winner's elbow, when they're safe on the pavement again. Winner catches his fingers, and Toru waits. Winner's eyes are confused, a question forming in them, but then his head snaps to the side.

'There,' he says softly.

A form in a doorway. Plastic tarps are spread out for shelter, but the person under the garbage is asleep, at best, or dead, at worst. Winner has locked in on it, goes striding for it, with Toru at his heels. Winner slows at the building's edge.

'Are you reading-- hearing-- feeling anything?' Toru asks.

'She's mad,' Winner whispers. 'Or near enough. And too old for your murderer. But she knows there's something awful that happened here.'

'Are you sure? I mean-- can you be sure that she's sure?'

Winner stands in silence, staring at the old woman. She stirs, just a little, and looks up. She mutters to herself, and draws a dirty blanket over her face.

Winner passes a hand over his eyes. 'Have you any money? Any cash?'

'For the woman?' He digs in his pocket. 'Um, a tenner, in local.'

'Please-- I'll get it back to you.'

'Yeah.' He hands it over. Winner's fingers brush his again, a gesture of thanks, as he takes it. The woman doesn't move as Winner bends over her, lets him tuck it into her pile of ragged possessions.

Something awful happening. That could mean anything, could mean nothing, but Winner brought it up unsolicited, so Toru scans the windows over the street, takes a long look at the cars parked nearby, trying to find anything that stands out. It seems normal enough. Every city everywhere looks much the same, on a work day, and London is no different than L3 Central or Brussels. There's a pair of workingmen in coveralls unloading a van full of unidentifiable boxes, a bus boy in an apron emptying trash bins in the alley behind the pub. An old iron fire escape to second-storey flats, the ladder long rusted away and removed.

One window with bars. The only window with bars, on the entire block. Over a fire escape with no ladder.

'Mr Winner,' he calls. 'Look there.'

'Miss.' Winner crouches next to the old woman. 'Do you know who lives there? At that barred window. Think about the window, please.'

Toru puts his phone to his ear and dials. 'Craft,' he says, as the agent manning Ops answers his call. 'We might be onto something. Investigating at Ironmonger and Dingley. Just past the B502. Stay on the line.'

_'Roger.'_

'Winner.' He reaches for the man's shoulder. 'Anything?'

'Only that she's afraid of it.' Winner stands. 'What are you going to do? You haven't got near probable cause.'

'Then we'll have to be clever.' He crosses the street at a brisk walk, Winner trailing him. The rain is just starting up properly, drops pelting him as he walks down the pavement, staring up at that fire escape and thinking. There around the corner is the door for the building, with a list of names at the buzzers. He jumps the steps to read it, and texts each one to Ops for look-up. Then he picks one at random, and presses the chime. No answer. No answer at the next, either. It's not til the fourth that someone answers.

'Pizza delivery,' he says, as his phone buzzes, replying that none of the names have returned anything on initial query. 'I'm trying to get to the Kincaids, but I think their buzzer's broken. Could you let me in?'

It's a savvy customer on the other end, who doesn't respond right away. He's moderately impressed when it's a child's voice that answers. _'Which pizza place?'_ it asks suspiciously.

'Barbican Express on Whitecross Street,' Winner murmurs.

'Barbican Express,' Toru answers casually. 'My name is Bert. You can call Express if you want, the phone is--'

He doesn't have to finish. The latch is already releasing, with a short beep to notify him. He grins at Winner, and yanks the door open.

'Bert?' Winner asks.

'Whitecross Street? Have you been to London before?'

'He was thinking about it. It's where he orders from, when his nanny is in.'

'You're a handy man to have around, sir.' The foyer isn't much, just tiled floor and a wall of mailboxes. Toru checks them against the names from the roster outside, and taps on the one with no name. Winner nods. 'Do you smell gas?' Toru asks him. 'I smell gas.'

'No,' Winner says, blinking at him. 'I smell-- pizza, actually.'

'Smells more like gas to me. Must be a leak. Maybe the leak is in Apartment 220.' He heads for the stairs at the end of the hall. 'You're not picking up on anything else, are you? No sense that he's in here.'

'No. If he were this close, I think I would know. The building is almost empty. Two children on the third floor, the ones you spoke to, and an old man on the fifth. But there's something--'

'Something what?'

'Odd. Something more, but I can't-- quite. I don't know. I've never felt anything like this before.'

Maybe that's good news, as far as their search is concerned. Toru twitches his coat open as they climb. 'And there's no way for you to tell if he's ever been here?'

'Not unless he wrote us a note.' Winner sways, and Toru grabs his arm instinctively, holding tight until Winner props himself against the wall. 'What is it?'

'Something,' Winner says again. 'It's cold in here.'

It's warm, at least to Toru. 'We'll get you some tea, after this,' Toru promises. 'Come on.'

220 is on the far end of the second storey corridor, away from the stairs. That would be good, if you wanted to cut off possible escape routes for people trapped inside. And good in another way, he realises, as soon as he steps off tile and onto carpet at the far end of the hall: there are sound buffers on this end of the building. He backtracks to tap on the walls, just to be sure. Drywall and plaster, for the other apartments, echoing hollowly. Where 220 must begin, his knock falls dully. Reinforced.

The latch is locked. He checks the ceiling and the corners for cameras-- none nakedly visible. No oddly placed potted plants, no tables in the corridor. He pulls his kit from his jacket pocket, and removes his lockpicks. 'If anyone asks,' he tells Winner, 'the door was open.'

'Wait.' Winner touches his shoulder. 'There's something in there. It's faint.'

He pauses with his picks in the lock. 'A person?'

'I-- I'm not sure. Not an animal.' Winner closes his eyes on a frown, as if he's listening closely. 'It's... cold, and...'

'And what? Dangerous?' He waits impatiently. 'Winner, anything?'

Winner's hand presses flat to the door. He leans his forehead against it. His lips move, not a word that Toru knows. 'Cold,' he says again.

'Move aside.' It takes only a few practised twists with the picks, and the latch springs. There's a chain lock, blocking him from swinging open the door, but that's easily removed with the pick, lifting it until the magnetic ball at the end slips out of the hole. He draws his gun and holds it low to his side, nodding Winner back a safe distance. He pushes open the door with his shoulder, and goes in.

It's dark. His hand torch illuminates motes of dust, the bulk of a couch, the glare of a television screen. He passes swiftly through the small sitting area into the kitchen, and from there to the bedroom, and circles back through the laundry and bath. Nothing. The place is empty. He holsters his gun and returns to the door for Winner, and flips on the lights.

'Dead end,' he says, disappointed, and tries to shrug it off. 'Worth checking it out for sure.'

'No.' Winner steps around him, acting almost dazed. He shuffles his feet on the carpet, looks around him by turning his head and never his eyes. 'It's cold. It's cold, and dark.'

'Cold.' He puts his phone to his ear. 'No go,' he tells them. 'Returning to vehicle. Stand down alert--'

'Craft,' Winner says sharply. 'Either listen to me or let me go home. There's something here.'

'Hold on,' he tells Ops, and pockets the phone. 'Yes, sir. Um-- let's look for cold spots.'

The refrigerator is his first thought, and it's empty of all but a few items, mouldy cheese and a rotted apple, expired milk. The laundry is dark enough, with a burnt-out bulb, but it's notably heated, even with a vent half-covered over by recent plasterwork. The bedroom is small, and though he flips the rug to check the wooden flooring beneath, there's nothing amiss. 'I don't see anything out of place,' he calls to Winner. 'Anything in the kitchen? Mr Winner?'

Winner is in the laundry, both hands on the wall, feeling down the corner seam behind the washer. 'They're different textures,' he says. 'And feel that. It's cool.'

He wedges in next to Winner to reach. 'Could be the outside wall.'

Winner slides to a crouch, to set his ear against the wall. 'It's in there, whatever it is.' His fingers curl against the wall, his eyes screwed closed in concentration. 'I'm here.'

If that's all the help Winner is going to be, it's Toru's job to figure out what to do with it. Hoping he's making the right decision, he puts his phone to his ear again. 'I need a team at my location. We have suspicious activity in a private flat. Commander, can we get a warrant?'

Po's voice answers immediately. _'I'm on it. What do I tell the judge?'_

He looks down at Winner's head, crammed to the wall and unmoving. 'A cry for help,' he tells her. 'We'll be waiting outside.'

 

**

 

The wall is hiding a freezer. And in the freezer are three heads.

Toru stays around long enough to watch them bag the body parts. He wants to scream, wants to kick down a brick wall-- rip out Rzhevsky's nuts with pliers. The sick anger on his fellow Preventers' faces says they're thinking worse than that.

He crosses the apartment, littered now with their forensic equipment, guarded by snipers at the windows, watching the street below. There won't be cars on the street, no outwardly visible sign that Preventers have found this place. There's always a chance that Rzhevsky will try to return. Toru hopes. Oh, he hopes. He flips on the sink in the kitchen, and fills a thermos. He doesn't trust the glasses in the cupboard, and wouldn't touch them even if he knew they were safe. He doesn't even want the water, but it's that or go dry. He sips cautiously, grimacing it down.

There's a cough from the bath. And the unmistakable sound of someone vomiting. Toru waves off Burgess, and goes himself. He raps once on the jamb, and nudges the door open.

'Water,' he says, and extends the thermos. 'See if you can keep it down.'

Winner sits back on the wall, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The moisture on his face might be sweat, and might be tears. Toru leans over him, first to flush the toilet, and then to rip off a length of tissue. He waits long seconds for Winner to take it. When he doesn't, Toru wipes his face, gently.

'Put these in.' He takes Winner's trembling hand and puts two foam earplugs in it. 'I can walk you down to the car.'

Winner fumbles the plugs in. 'But you're staying?' he asks hoarsely.

'I have to sign out the medical examiner.'

'But he's not here.'

'You mean Rzhevsky. No.' Toru hunkers down on his heels. 'Are you-- you mean you want to keep driving? I'm not sure you're up for it, sir.'

'And what would you think of me if I asked to go have a lie-down instead?' Winner presses his wrist to his mouth, exhales carefully. 'One thing is sure. He is a Newtype.'

'That's how you knew about the freezer,' Toru guesses. He eases down on his bum, tucking his feet under him. 'Psychic energy, after all?'

'I don't know. Something like that. Different than anything I've ever felt before.' Voices rise in the room behind them, and Winner winces. 'I didn't know what was in there. Just that once I knew it was there, I couldn't think of anything else. It has to be something to do with the Newtype-- energy. Like the flash. I knew it was there.'

'They'll do dental exams on the... the women. See if they can be identified.' Toru rubs his knees, drops his head back to the tile wall. 'Who knows how many more have died that we don't know about. We may never know.'

'I was just starting to forget how young you are.'

'I don't think you have to be young to care.'

'You have to be young to take it this hard.' Winner wipes his face with both hands, and drags himself to his feet. 'I'll go to the car. Whenever you're ready.'

Toru waits for the medical examiner to arrive, and for the local social services to get the building's other residents safely out. He does detour back to that pub, reminded by the rumble of his stomach that they've been hours at digging out Rzhevsky's flat. A young girl behind the bar smiles at his entrance, and sneaks him sideways glances as she enters his order into the computer. When she places a take-away bag on the counter for him, it comes with her number. Toru ducks her flirting, and bins the number when he's out the door.

Winner sits up when Toru climbs into the car. 'Tea,' Toru tells him. 'I said I'd remember it.'

'So you did. Thank you. And something greasy and hot, I take it.'

'Chips and two burgers. I hope you eat meat.'

'I'm not sure I can eat anything at the moment.'

'We can stay parked here until you settle down.'

'No.' Winner gazes at him sidelong, too. 'You're stalling. You don't want to go.'

'It's not-- sort of. I—' He grips the wheel until his fingers tingle. 'You already know. You're reading me.'

'You're broadcasting,' Winner returns, and shrugs him off. 'I'll sit quietly, then. It's your show.'

'I'm sorry.'

'You're not.' Unexpectedly, that makes Winner smile. He sips his tea. 'You shouldn't be. Don't worry about it. Where do we go next?'

Toru shakes his hands until he can do something other than make fists with them. He unwraps the wax paper around the burger, and sticks it in his mouth. It tastes like-- grease. Hot grease. He has to choke it down. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and tosses the burger onto the dash. 'Commander thinks maybe we should head to the old crime scenes,' he says, and is proud of his level tone. 'See if you get more of these psychic leftovers feelings. Pick up new information.'

'You don't want to,' Winner observes.

'She's right.' That's harder to swallow than the burger. 'It's the logical next step. It's protocol, if you can call psychic anything protocol.'

'But it's a waste of time. I didn't learn anything we didn't know from his flat. And you already found the bodies at the other scenes.'

'Exactly,' he bursts out, and clamps his lips down with his teeth. 'But what Commander says is go.'

'A Commander's job is to follow protocol. That's her problem to worry about.'

Despite himself, his heart leaps a little. 'So you would disregard her order.'

'I would consider the possibility that there are other ways to proceed. But I'm not a Preventer, I'm a private citizen. And it's not my career.' Winner toys with the headphones, wrapping the cord around his wrist. His head is bowed, and he doesn't look up at Toru. 'If you had my ability, this thing in your head, you'd use it for good. That's what you think. Every ounce of you thinks it. You'd trade with me in a heartbeat, just now.'

'I wouldn't.' He offers that quietly, closing his eyes on the rain, forcing himself into stillness. Serenity and insight. He doesn't have either, right now. 'But I want so badly for this to end right. Catch Rzhevsky, before he can hurt anyone else.'

'There will be another case after this. Another after that. There's always someone doing horrible, evil things, somewhere. You can't fight every fight.'

'So you think I should just bite my tongue and fall in line.'

'That's not what I meant. That's not-- not my decision, anymore.'

'You couldn't give me a yes or no answer, could you?'

Winner sighs. He wraps the strings of the iPod's headphones around his fingers, then faces Toru in the cab. 'I'll say this once, and if you agree or disagree, that's the final word. It's your investigation. But if you really have put yourself in a corner by bringing me in, all I'll say is that if it were me, I wouldn't be worried about protocol. One of the worst things about being young is constantly being told that when you're older and wiser you'll understand why you ought to follow all the rules. One of the best things about being young is that sometimes-- maybe just a very few times-- it's worth it to try breaking them, even if you do fail. And maybe you will. And maybe it will have terrible consequences. But you're young enough to survive it.'

Worth one more deep breath. His heart is pounding fast. Movement comes in little pieces that feel like mud and mudslides all at once in his head, unbearably slow and uncontrollably fast. He sets the car in drive. He unlocks the brake.

When he pulls out into traffic, Winner is smiling again.

 

**

 

'So you can't just scan the file?'

'Scan it?' Winner repeats absently as he flips pages. 'You mean with my mind? No.'

'You've never tried it?'

'It hasn't got a brain, has it. It doesn't feel anything, think anything. It's paper. I have to read like regular folk.'

'What about a computer?' Toru persists. He pauses at a red, and decides to turn up the side-street. It takes them on a curving lane behind a row of tall council housing. 'A computer sort of has a brain. Maybe one of those bio-systems?'

'A long time ago,' Winner says. 'Before you ask, yes, I believe it would work with a system other than Zero, but no, I'm not keen to test it.' He's cringing out an apology when Winner waves it away. 'I'm not offended. But I'm curious. I assume Zero's existence is classified. Sally's read you in.'

'I wanted to know enough about you to--'

'Entice me into leaving my sad little cocoon.'

'I wasn't going to actually say that, sir.'

'You were thinking it,' Winner points out. 'But I take your point. I'm being rude.'

Winner is staring up the hill at a run-down shop, a window of clouded, broken glass. Toru slows the car. When Winner only shakes his head, Toru holds in a sigh. It's a grey afternoon, edging into a dull, rainy evening. It's been hours since he reported in, and the message board is chiding him with an insistent red blinker.

'Not rude,' Toru says then. 'Or at least, I guess I understand. You've got this ability. It would be hard not to use it.'

'It's not just that.' Winner hunches one shoulder, and folds over another page of the file, his finger tracing the crease. 'You might have noticed... it's not exactly a friendly place, the Centre in St John's. To them, I'm just another patient, only rich enough they have to suffer my eccentricities. They don't know anything about Newtypes or Gundams, and not everyone is as open-minded as you are. Pun intended. People want to keep their secrets. It's easy for them to dislike me. Distrust me. It's been easy for me to resent them for it, except that I do understand. I wouldn't like some stranger to know everything about me, either.'

'Mr Winner?'

'Quatre. My father was Mr Winner.' Winner reaches the photographs in the file, and closes it slowly. 'How did you figure out he was a Newtype?'

'His military file was classified. There's not that many reasons why it would be.'

'I can think of dozens of reasons before we even approach the edge of the Newtype problem.' Winner cocks his head. 'You know why they hide away the Newtypes, don't you? Did Sally tell you that? Ah. She didn't. But I'm surprised you haven't guessed. You're clever enough.'

'What do you mean?' The car's battery is going flat. He'll need to stop for a re-charge soon. Technically he should return to their field station, to exchange for a new team, but if he goes back, he'll be called to account for a day of playing hooky, and he's not quite ready for that. Not quite ready to go back empty-handed, anyway, and if he does, they might not let him back out with Winner tomorrow. Well, someone will go out with Winner. But he wants it to be himself. 'You mean why does the military not want Preventers to know who they've identified as a Newtype?'

'Preventers. The public. Even family members of the targeted few.'

That's so unexpected Toru rolls his eyes before he can catch himself. 'I didn't think you'd be one of those.'

'One of whom? Anti-government quacks?'

'I didn't say that either,' Toru defends himself, and pulls into a left-turn lane toward the big shopping centre. The early dinner crowd are out, and after-work shoppers, and that means so are the homeless who depend on begging. There's a young woman sitting on the ground by the nearest cashpoint, wrapped in a ragged blanket and calling out to passerby. 'I just mean, if you really think Big Brother are out there suppressing all kinds of conspiracy--'

'I do really think that,' Winner answers seriously. 'It's been that way most of my life, no matter who's been in charge day to day. I don't kid myself that it will change in my lifetime, either. Even the Pacifists were guilty of it; they swept so much under the rug in the name of establishing peace, starting anew. Nor should you kid yourself that you're not a part of that, or that you're not somehow participating in it, in Preventers.'

Toru sets his jaw, trying to grind away the knee-jerk irritation of being lectured. 'I don't believe the public need to know everything. It's a security issue, for one thing. Most people are glad to give up a little transparency if it helps keep them safe.'

'It is always amazing to me that people can believe they live in democracy and actively consent to a government which refuses to be accountable for its every action,' Winner says. 'The biggest secret any government keeps is how many secrets it's keeping. And that is a security issue. Just because you don't know what's on the other side of a locked door doesn't mean you're safe from it. Your mother and father would be the first to tell you that, were they here.'

'They're not here, because they thought it was more important to protest than to stay on Earth where they could make a difference from the inside.' He wipes a hand through his hair, and cracks his neck to both sides. 'Mr Winner, with respect, please stay out of my head on this issue.'

The silence then is chastened. He pretends not to hear Winner's mumbled apology, and isn't sure if it mollifies him or not. Because he did drag Winner out of isolation, didn't he, and if Winner didn't really want to be here, he wouldn't be. It's not as though Toru has lied to him about anything. And when this is over, Winner can go running right back to St John's if that's what he wants, where no-one asks anything of him at all. There's not a hell of a lot of difference between exile in the cold of North America or the dust of the Red Planet. Toru would never just give up. He doesn't understand how anyone could, but someone like Winner, someone who fought so hard for so long--

Winner hunches down in his seat with his headphones on, then, and they drive along in quiet for more than an hour. London never really goes dark, between lamp posts and light pollution, but it gets murkier and murkier, until he has to turn on the fan as well as the wipers to keep the screen clear. Considering it's a company car, he's a little surprised Commander Po hasn't had him tracked by the GPS tracer. It's possible-- maybe-- that she's covering for him, or trusting him, but the later it gets, the more he regrets this decision. He should have checked in; they should have gone to the other murder sites, as Po ordered. Maybe it would have been better to try this in the morning, with Winner fresh and rested, with more idea maybe what to look for. Maybe one of those messages he's left unread on his phone is an alert about the ID on the newly discovered victims, and that might be a clue they could use.

He shifts in his seat, flexing a foot tired of being angled on the pedals, and says, 'We thought he might be a Newtype because he fits the profile.'

Winner tugs off his headphones, clears his throat. 'Profile? There's a profile for Newtypes?'

He nods, and brakes behind a lorry that turns onto their street. 'Colonial. Not exclusively, but more than sixty percent. High scores on IQ and spatial awareness. Repeated childhood injuries, which seem to be related to the development of the Newtype abilities, or just an abusive homelife, usually a single-parent or no-parent household. Noted leadership skills, whether that's a positive or a negative.' The lorry is slow to move with the light change, and Toru taps impatiently. 'The teenage years get rough. Frequent run-ins with social services or police. Increasingly erratic behaviour. Socially, they tend to retreat. Go off the grid, sometimes for years.'

'And Rzhevsky fits the profile.' Winner drops his iPod into the cupholder. 'It's out of charge.'

'I don't think I have a cord,' he says, guilt pricking him. 'We can head back. You can charge it at the hotel.'

'It's all right.'

'I don't want you to make yourself sick over this. We can be back out here in a few hours.'

'I've been thinking,' Winner responds. He lifts the file in his lap, lets it fall back. 'That profile. For the Newtypes. How many of the victims fit the profile?'

'The victims?' Toru looks at him sharply. 'What do you mean?'

'You said most of them are women. But not all.'

'Two were men. A twenty-seven year old and a thirty-nine year old.'

'Serial murders don't usually vary from their type, do they.'

'Not usually.' There's space on the side of the street, and Toru parks in it, rather than drive and talk. 'It's not unheard of. But usually if the murderer goes after both genders, it's with children, before the visible development of a sexualised appearance.'

'What if we're looking for something less complicated than all of that? What if we're looking for the same thing Rzhevsky is? Not just homeless and vulnerable. Disturbed and-- unique. He's looking for people just like him.'

'To murder? Why?'

'When we catch him, you should ask him that.' Winner pinched the bridge of his nose. 'She wants a dog.'

'What? Who?'

'The girl who lives there.' Winner nods out the window. 'And the teenage boy above them is looking at pornography on his computer. He's just accidentally downloaded a virus.'

Toru closes his eyes, just for a moment. He needs it.

 

'Any luck?' Sally asks as he approaches. Toru drags his feet getting close to her, but the moment her eyes rise to his face, he snaps a salute so hard it sways him. Her mouth goes just a little pinched.

'Ma'am,' he says meekly. 'I want to explain why I didn't follow--'

'Protocol, the way you and I discussed. You can save it for the final report.' She tosses down the file she's reading, and gestures him toward the desk she's been using in back. 'Talk to me about Winner. How did he do?'

'Um, I think fairly well. I'm still confident that the basic plan is on track, but he brought something up tonight that I wanted to run by you, because it-- if you think it should, of course-- should change our approach.'

As Commander, Sally gets the only office space, a small oven of glass walls and a functional but rather battered desk. Whoever rented out the shop before it was sold had left little bits behind-- a plaque for Manager of the Year, a file cabinet, a framed poster of Aruba. The poster is on the floor now, the wall repurposed as a projector screen for their satellite maps. Sally's old desk is spread with Preventer equipment, and the plastic chair creaks as she sits in it, but she looks every bit as regal in here as she ever does at the sleek, much more impressive office at Headquarters. Toru finds himself standing at parade rest, and flexes his hands behind his back before deciding he had better stay that way until she asks him to sit.

Which may be a long time coming. Sally lets him stew in silence for two full minutes. Then she-- finally-- looks away from him, to her laptop, and removes the elastic from her ponytail to comb her fingers through her hair. She says, 'Were you somehow unclear that the rules apply to you, Craft?'

'No, ma'am.'

'Were you somehow unclear that you've already been given extraordinary lee-way in the course of this mission?'

'No, ma'am.'

'Are you under the impression that your talents are so awesome that the rest of us should just get out of the way and let you work?'

'No, ma'am.' He swallows back his protest, and confines himself to bare honesty. 'I knew I was disobeying orders. I apologise.'

'Apologies are fine when you're late for dinner. Apologies don't near cover deliberately flouting my authority for seven hours, Agent. There are a dozen people who know you didn't check in all day. Do you have any idea the scrutiny we're under, here? The Secretary of Defence is read in on this. The mere fact that Rzhevsky is a Newtype would have brought us under the microscope, but bringing in Winner as an active field consultant raised this to a whole new level. I shouldn't have to remind you that having the Secretary and her team picking through every sentence of our reports should have us all on our very best behaviour, but apparently I need to be in the same room as you to keep you on track.'

'I swear, Commander, it's not like that.' His throat is tight and it's all he can do to keep his expression neutral. He's never been dressed down like this, and his gut is all but on the floor. He tries to clear his throat. 'If I can just explain.'

Sally leans back in her chair, tapping on the arms. 'Well?'

'This morning when we entered Rzhevsky's apartment, Winner was able to sense the existence of that freezer where he was keeping the bodies. We assumed at the time that what Winner was picking up was Rzhevsky's Newtype energy, but Winner's posed a new theory. He thinks it's possible that the victims themselves were Newtypes, and that's why he was able to pick up on them, even dead.'

Even though she's angry with him, that catches her interest. 'That suggests there might be some kind of genetic component to the Newtype phenomenon, some kind of physical aspect that we haven't identified previously.'

'I don't know, and I don't think he does, but it does suggest that we could broaden our search from just Rzhevsky to include potential victims.'

Sally is already nodding. But then she holds up a hand. 'How far did you get today?'

'You mean-- in miles?'

'Yes.'

'We got through about six neighbourhoods. We doubled back through Clerkenwell this evening.'

'And did Winner get any flashes of Newtypes?'

'Well... no.'

'So instead of looking for one needle in a haystack, we're looking for six needles in a haystack.' She sighed. 'But it is ahead of where we were this morning. All right. This is how we're going to do this. I have already covered your ass by pretending I never told you to go to the other murder sites, and it's damn lucky for you that I got to it before it went into the case notes. But tomorrow you _will_ check in, and you will do it every half hour on the mark. And I want a plan of action, and I want you to follow it precisely, so that I know where you are at all times without having to have you traced. And if Winner tries to convince you of anything--'

'He didn't, ma'am. It was my call.'

'I'm sure,' she says flatly. 'But I want you to hear me on this, Toru. If you get caught, there may not be a second chance for me to protect you. So you keep your toes on the other side of the line. Am I understood?'

He nods tightly. 'Yes, Commander. Absolutely.'

'And keep Winner contained. He's here to help, not run us around by the nose.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Go get some rest.' She offered him a small curve of her lips-- a sly smile. 'And I mean at least four hours. Don't cross me again, Toru.'

He can't quite manage a grin in return, but ducks his head. 'Yes, ma'am,' he agrees.


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Winner's no help. He's just waiting there, standing there, as if it doesn't involve him at all. Or testing Toru, maybe, to see which way he'll jump. Micheko has her hands on her hips, daring him on. Frustrated. He's frustrated himself. Rzhevsky is out there. And driving around in the rain another day might not make one bit of difference, in the end, and they might not catch him in time, or even ever, and that will be at least partly on Toru, because he's the one who wanted to bring Winner in-- he's the one who convinced Commander it was worthwhile to find another Newtype. And he did. Winner's here, because Toru brought him here, and Winner isn't saying he won't do it, can't do it._

Toru knocks again, but there's still no answer. 'Mr Winner?' he calls softly. 'Are you awake? Sir?'

Nothing. There's a stir in the room opposite, though. He is making a lot of noise, and it is too early for it. His eyes feel sandy and he feels a little fragile for the amount of caffeine he's already ingested. But it will get him into the car, and that's all he wants right now. Car. Winner. Rzhevsky.

'Mr Winner,' he whispers through the door. 'I'm going to use my key. I'm coming in.'

No answer. Toru removes his key from his wallet, and swipes it across the maglock. It flicks to green, and he pushes open the door. Dark, absolutely dark, even after the dim of the hotel's hallways. Toru fumbles along the wall, feeling for a light switch, and can't find it. He inches forward as his eyes slowly adjust, and bumps into the table before he actually sees it. But the search yields a lamp. He pulls the cord, and the room lights up.

Winner is not in it.

'Hello?' Toru calls uncertainly. 'Mr Winner?'

At last, an answer. 'Here,' comes the muffled reply. From the bath.

Toru knocks on the door. 'You ready to go, Mr Winner? I have the car waiting downstairs.' The light isn't on the bath-- that's odd. 'Mr Winner? You in there? Sir, are you feeling all right?'

'The woman across the hall is getting divorced,' Winner answers listlessly. 'She cried all night.'

This is worth a deep breath. He'd meditated, before he'd left his own hotel room, but now he wishes for nothing so much as a nap, instead of more of this. He checks the handle, finds the door unlocked, and lets himself in.

Winner is lying flat in the bathtub, his iPod on full blast, his feet propped on the porcelain rim. He wipes his face hurriedly as Toru enters, coughs into his sleeve. Toru sits on the toilet, propping his elbows on his knees. 'We can try a different hotel tomorrow,' he says. 'See if we get you a room without any occupieds right around it.'

'I knew what it would be when I agreed to come.' Winner stops the playback on the iPod. 'Is it morning yet?'

'Not for a few hours. It's four o'clock.' Toru stands, and offers a hand. 'Let's get you cleaned up. The lobby is pretty empty. We'll get a cup of tea and sit for a little while.'

Winner drags on his hand, climbing out of the tub, and brushes uselessly at his rumpled hair as if embarrassed of himself. Toru politely looks away. 'I bought a charger for the car,' he says. 'For your music.'

'Thank you.'

'Okay.' Toru backs out of the bath, puts his hands safely in his pockets. 'It's pretty cold out, but at least it's not raining. Dress warm.'

Winner rubs a stubbled cheek. 'Yes. Thanks.'

'Yeah.' He nods along to that, awkwardly. 'I'll be outside. Whenever you're ready.'

There's only a single sleepy attendant at the desk in the lobby, staring slack-mouthed at the television playing yesterday's news. Toru fills a paper cup with burnt-tasting coffee out of the carafe at the guest services, and rifles the stand of pamphlets and magazines for anything entertaining. Not much. The murder spree Preventers have sent so many agents to stop has never made the news, but it will soon, if the victims really are Newtypes. Whether the headlines will call Preventers' triumph or failure is the only question.

He doesn't hear the footsteps behind him, until a shoulder nudges his. He almost jumps out of his skin, and catches a bleary glimpse of a smirk. Micheko strips the buttons of her dark coat, and reaches past him for the coffee. 'Did you get any sleep at all?' she asks him.

'A little.' Toru clears his throat. His fingers are awkward, trying to wrap around the wooden stirrer in his cup. He shakes them. 'Why are you here? I mean, it's not that I'm not glad to see you. But I thought you were staying at HQ for the night.'

'I was. I did.' She pours a mere half-cup and drinks it black, small sips through lips that are still smiling at his discomfort. Her dark hair is loose, today, drifting down over her slim shoulders. She smells like lavendar.

Toru clears his throat again, and sits at the nearest table. 'Commander sent you?' he guesses.

Micheko joins him, sitting opposite. 'She said you needed a reminder on the virtue of obedience. And that you'd know what that means.'

He can smile for that. Sally's favourite mantra, after all, is 'Trust-- but verify'. 'So you'll be trailing me all day.'

'You and Winner.' Micheko leans in. 'So what is he really like? I know Commander knew him, back in the war.'

'He's... sort of a mixed bag.'

She waits, then taps impatiently on the table. 'What's that mean? Toru?'

'It means I'm not sure what I mean.' He shrugs helplessly. 'I guess you'll have a chance to decide for yourself. He'll be down in a minute.'

Winner has used the bath for its proper purpose, when he descends some twenty minutes later. He's shaved and groomed, but pale and red-eyed, and he jumps at things Toru can't hear, stares at the desk attendant.

'Get some tea in you,' Toru says. He fetches the cup himself, hot and fresh. 'Mr Winner, I'd like to introduce Agent Micheko Walker. She'll be working with us today.'

Winner focusses tight on Micheko, who rises to her feet, silent, expression neutral. It's a long look, that, and Toru shifts on his feet, wondering if he ought to interrupt. Then, abruptly, Winner relaxes.

'Good morning, Agent,' he says, almost urbane in the courteous handshake he exchanges with her. 'Or at least I hope it will be a good morning for us.'

'Thank you, sir. I've got my fingers crossed for a successful day, as well.'

'I hope you don't mind my observation-- but you have such lovely hair.' Winner squeezes her hand with an avuncular smile, eyes going suddenly sideways to Toru. 'Don't you agree, Agent Craft?'

Toru's face heats. He coughs. 'Commander Po has gotten clearance for you to see Preventers' file on Newtypes,' he says gruffly. 'I thought you might want to look at it before we head out. In case it helps with anything.'

'I'd like to look at it for many reasons.' Winner sits between Toru and Micheko. He shivers at the first sip of his tea, and clutches it close. 'Paranoid or not, I hope you don't expect me to confirm or deny whatever theories you have. This case aside, I'm not entirely sure-- in fact I'm quite sure I don't want Preventers to know everything there is to know about the Newtypes.'

'Do you honestly think we want to harm anyone?' Toru asks crossly. 'We're not even out to hurt Rzhevsky. Just stop him and put him in prison where he belongs.'

'Do you honestly think he'll only go to prison?' Winner returns. 'The first Newtype legally in custody?'

Micheko smoothly intervenes before Toru can issue a heated retort. Mildly, she says, 'We're all running low on sleep. The best way to keep a lid on our tempers is to save the personal stuff for a day without a deadline.'

Winner exhales slowly. Toru rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders.

'I've been thinking,' Winner says then. 'About the victims being Newtypes. It must be as difficult for Rzhevsky to find them as it is for me to do. He can't just float about the city hoping to feel a flash. Even if he did, it wouldn't be something reliable, would it? There can't be that many Newtypes here, even in a place as big as London.'

'I'm with you so far,' Toru agrees. 'So what do you think he does to find them?'

'I don't know,' Winner says. 'I don't. I'm sorry. I couldn't think of anything.'

Toru rises to pour himself more coffee. 'Well, let's see if we can work together on this. Walk me through the flash. What's it really like?'

'Mm.' Winner considers him from lowered eyes. 'Not a flash,' he says at last. 'Not quite. More like-- like waking abruptly from a dream. But just for a moment.'

'So a sense of dislocation.'

'That's as accurate a way to describe it as any I've ever heard.'

'Do you know if it's the same for all Newtypes?'

'For at least a few others,' Winner admits cautiously, and says no more.

Toru sets his jaw. Fine. If Winner wants to keep it close to his chest, that's fine; Toru doesn't need to know what doesn't apply to Rzhevsky. That's enough of an answer for now. 'So that's the only way to know if there's another Newtype nearby.'

'So far as I've ever heard or experienced.'

That's more like honesty. He believes that. 'So if that's the only tool Rzhevsky has in his belt, and his victim profile is always the same, then how is he able to find so many Newtypes in one city?'

'Maybe he's found a way to amplify the flash,' Micheko says. She meets Toru's eyes. 'Which means--'

Only a moment later Winner is wincing. Toru clamps down on the excited whirl of his thoughts, but Micheko doesn't understand; she watches with concern and surprise as Winner abruptly abandons their table. Toru touches her wrist to keep her in her chair. 'What's wrong with him?' she whispers. 'I thought he would faint right there.'

'Too much stimulation.' Winner only goes as far as the edge of the lobby. Micheko bites her lip, and Toru rubs his hands through his hair, presses the heel of his palms into his tired eyes. 'He reads minds, sort of,' Toru explains, tries to explain, and gives up almost before he's begun. 'Could you go buy some food?' he asks her, and pulls a card from his wallet. 'I think the lobby pantry has muffins. Something solid.'

'Sure.' She climbs reluctantly to her feet. 'I didn't-- hurt him?'

'No.' Toru stands as well, and touches her wrist again. 'Just give me a minute with him. Thanks.'

Winner's as rigid as a plank when Toru crosses slowly toward him, but he doesn't try to leave, so Toru places himself along the mauve lobby wallpaper and lets his spine mould against the support. Winner swallows so hard Toru can hear it. 'I'm sorry,' Winner says, barely any voice to it. 'It caught me off-guard.'

'I don't think there's any way to be on your guard after spending the night in a bathtub.'

Winner looks sharply at him. Toru meets his eyes, but only for a moment. He says, 'If you want me to send her back to HQ, I can try. I think Commander would understand.'

'It's not going to get easier or better.' Winner opens his blazer for the iPod in his pocket, and he puts in the earphones. 'It will get worse,' he says, and turns on the little drive. A moment later, music begins to play, but the tense lines around Winner's mouth never ease. 'Do you want to get moving? I'm ready.'

'Yeah.' Micheko has a little paper bag with her as she comes back from the pantry. 'I think maybe you should eat something. Get you some energy. If you let everything else slide, it certainly will get worse.'

'Toru.' Micheko hesitates, coming near them, but only for a moment. She steels her shoulders and moves in with purpose. 'About the idea of amplification. Of the flash. He's got to have a way to do it, doesn't he? Rzhevsky, I mean.'

'I would think,' Toru echoes. He glances at Winner, who's shoved his hands in his pockets and looks exhausted and miserable, but is listening, at least. 'Although we didn't find anything unusual in his apartment except the new victims.'

'Maybe he carries it with him,' Winner suggests. The downturn of his mouth is apologetic, and Micheko smiles at him. 'Or it could be connected to his Newtype ability.'

'But if the flash is mostly the same for every Newtype,' Micheko insists, 'then theoretically every Newtype could find a way of amplifying the flash.'

'I don't know if it's ever been tried,' Winner says.

'My point is-- what if we try it?'

Toru catches her idea, and has to bite down on surge of urgency it makes him feel. 'If you could amplify it, Mr Winner, you could sense him. Without having to go through the waste of driving around the city just hoping we stumble across him or another Newtype who might or might not be a potential victim.'

Winner is obviously nonplussed by the notion. 'We haven't any idea how he does it, though,' he protests. 'And don't you need clearance or-- something-- experiments? I didn't exactly volunteer for wires and electrodes, particularly not with Preventers at the switch.'

'No-one's talking about electrodes.' Toru hesitates himself, then. 'We would have to tell Commander. If we need any kind of-- equipment.'

'But what if we didn't?'

He looks at Micheko. 'What do you mean?'

She shrugs uncertainly. 'Not that I'm saying it's an unassailable source of information, but... in science fiction, it's always water.'

'Science fiction.' He holds in the entirely natural knee-jerk reaction he feels to that. 'Water?' he tries.

'Right. Flotation tanks, or salt water, or--'

'Sensory deprivation,' Winner says, with an odd hollow note to his voice. 'You're thinking of sensory deprivation.'

Toru puts up both hands. 'All right. I don't know much about this, but I know enough to say we should probably stop talking about it.'

'No.' Winner inhales deeply, and seems steadier by the end of it. 'Agent Walker's onto something. We did use sensory deprivation, in the early days. It might, theoretically, be possible to achieve an altered state during Rest. At least it was believed so, when we were developing the-- biocomputer system you and I spoke of yesterday, Agent Craft.'

Zero System. Which Micheko won't know about-- or at least is not supposed to officially know about-- and which is scraping the edge-- driving a deep wedge into a world of things that are definitely dangerous and definitely beyond Toru's knowledge and experience.

Winner has his eyes, and Toru knows without being told that Winner will follow him on this one. If he says no, that will end it. If he says yes--

Micheko doesn't know any of that, though, and innocently keeps on the trail, pursuing it even though the other two have gone quiet. 'So it works?' she's asking. 'How?'

Winner answers slowly, while Toru tears his eyes away to stare at his shoes. 'At least in flotation Rest, or Restricted Environmental Stimulation Therapy, and sometimes in chamber Rest, the brain does stop functioning as normal. After the first forty minutes the brain transitions to theta waves. Theta waves normally only occur in the few minutes before waking or before falling asleep. People who achieve that state can often perform mental tasks at much higher levels than in alpha or beta states.'

'Forty minutes?' Micheko repeats. 'That's do-able. We could try it.'

And in the Zero experiments, subjects like the man standing two feet away from him had hallucinated, had psychotic breaks, destroyed colonies. Fired the Libra superweapon on a defenceless planet.

'And learnt to control hundreds of independent mobile dolls with just their minds,' Winner adds softly. Toru looks up. 'It was just a tool. It could be mastered. This was one of the ways.'

'No,' Toru says.

Winner accepts that with a tiny nod. Micheko, however, doesn't. 'But he just said it could work,' she argues. 'Can't we at least try?'

'Try how?' Toru demands. 'Where are we supposed to even get a, whatever, a chamber or a flotation tank?'

'The hotel has a pool. And it's closed until nine and it's dark in there.'

'We'd have to get Commander's sign-off. And permission from the hotel to enter the pool off-hours.'

'Like you care about breaking into a pool without permission from some mid-level manager,' Micheko dismissed him. 'And Commander doesn't have to know unless, or until, it works. And if it works, she's not going to care that you let Winner float around in the dark for an hour.'

Winner's no help. He's just waiting there, standing there, as if it doesn't involve him at all. Or testing Toru, maybe, to see which way he'll jump. Micheko has her hands on her hips, daring him on. Frustrated. He's frustrated himself. Rzhevsky is out there. And driving around in the rain another day might not make one bit of difference, in the end, and they might not catch him in time, or even ever, and that will be at least partly on Toru, because he's the one who wanted to bring Winner in-- he's the one who convinced Commander it was worthwhile to find another Newtype. And he did. Winner's here, because Toru brought him here, and Winner isn't saying he won't do it, can't do it.

'You can't use the iPod in the pool,' he says, last ditch effort to avert something his gut tells him is already inevitable.

'We can wrap it in a plastic bag,' Micheko replies promptly. 'I'll go get one now.'

'If we get caught in there--'

'That's what the badge is for, Toru.'

He spends one last moment on helpless dithering. Then he takes a deep breath of his own, and takes the plunge. 'All right. We'll try it.'

He has time for second, third, fourth, and even fifth debates with himself, as they pick the lock on the pool in the basement. Micheko uses her hand-torch to prowl the perimetre, and returns with a terrycloth robe and a stack of fluffy towels from the laundry locker. Winner removes his shoes to test the water, and shudders at the temperature. 'Warmer would be better,' he says, 'but frozen isn't the worst idea, either.'

What could really go wrong? Winner will float for a while, and either it will help with this mental flash thing or it won't. There won't be any pyrotechnics, there won't be any rampages across the city. There are no Gundams, not anymore, and no reason to be anxious about this, aside from the fact that Winner isn't the most stable individual he could ask for, and he doesn't want to be responsible for accidentally harming the man. Forty minutes to an hour. It's not really time lost, except it if produces nothing, and if it produces nothing, then there's just the issue of a single hour. A single hour in which Rzhevsky could be selecting a new victim, killing her, removing her head. If he's realised by now that Preventers have found his apartment, that might accelerate the timeline. If he hasn't, nothing has changed. There are too many 'ifs', and no answers, not here in the chlorine-smelling pool house. He can't keep his agitation to himself. He paces, and feels Winner watching him, and can't bring himself to speak.

'Ideally it would be salt water,' Winner murmurs. 'If I have trouble floating, one of you will need to help.'

'I'll do it.' He beats Micheko to the offer by a full second, overriding her soft voice. Damned if he's going to let anything go wrong, stand by when it's on his shoulders. He kicks off his shoes right away, while Micheko shrugs. 'Keep by your phone,' he tells her. 'If we need emergency services--'

'I'll stay in the shallow end,' Winner promises, almost gently. 'Just keep your hands under my shoulders. Don't let me go under.'

'Yeah.' He fumbles on the buttons of his shirt, even when Micheko politely turns her back. Winner is already shedding his shirt and trousers. 'Mr Winner--'

'Quatre.'

Not while he's looking at the man in his shorts. 'Are you sure about this?'

'No,' Winner says. He drapes his clothes on a glass table by the poolside and tucks his plastic-wrapped iPod into the waistband of his shorts. 'Shall we?'

The water is freezing. Not just cold. Toru breaks out in gooseflesh just by sticking in a toe. Winner wears a look of resolve, like he's shuttering down, jaws ground together. They navigate the tiled steps together, him just behind Winner, watching the tight skin of his spine as he wades down into the water. There's a map of scars, just visible in the gleam of Micheko's torch, but they vanish when they hit the water. Toru blinks in the dark. He's caught the shivers, now, his lower half going numb first to the knees, then the thighs, and then to his stomach, before Winner is in deep enough. He hears a rough gasp, and then Winner submerges himself. He comes up slick and panting with the cold, arms spread wide, hair shedding water everywhere. Toru catches him by the shoulder, pure panic for just a second there, but he's still solid, still real, still safe.

Winner lays back. Ripples lap against Toru's skin, as he moves into position, slipping his hands under the surface, a few dark inches under Winner's shoulders. Their breath steams, on each tremulous exhale. Winner's body is just a pale gold blotch, without any light nearby. He hears Micheko on the edge, directly across from them. The tinny sound of Winner's music vanished the moment his head went under. He can't see for sure, but he thinks Winner's eyes are closed. He closes his own. No fear. Winner chose this. He chose it. It will be what it will be.

For all that he meditated only a few hours ago, it's hard to reach that point of detachment, objectivity now. Usually it comes easily; now it comes in snatches, elusive, shattered by every tiny sound, every shift, the brush of Winner's hair against his hands. He forces himself to stillness. He imagines his eyes as stones, the images on them dying into blackness. He focusses only on his breath, the controlled in and out through his nostrils.

'Toru.'

Micheko's whisper is so soft it almost doesn't disturb him. He has to make himself open his eyes, and sees only spots at first, until he blinks them away. 'You all right?'

'Look at him.'

He looks down. Winner floats, almost serenely, though he's sinking lower and lower. The water is almost to his nose now, overlapping his chin and chest. The earbuds are floating free. And he's glowing.

'God,' Toru says.

'Or something else entirely,' Micheko whispers. 'Do you think that means it's working?'

It definitely means he should have informed Sally. Toru wets his lips. Forty minutes is going to be a long damn time.

**

At fifty-seven minutes, Winner gasps, gags, and goes under.

Toru grabs for him and misses. He gasps himself, something inarticulate and terrified, and drenches himself plunging into the freezing water after Winner. He gets a handful of flesh and hair and yanks. Micheko leans out perilously over the edge to help, pulling both of them as Toru stumbles into the shallow end. He hauls Winner onto the steps, and Micheko has him under the armpits, straining to get him out the rest of the way.

'I'm all right,' Winner coughs. Toru's hands are numb from the water, clumsy as he fumbles for the towels. He doesn't register his teeth chattering until he sees Winner's blue-tinged lips. Winner sprawls, limp and weak, in Micheko's lap, water splashing all around them. Toru covers him with the towels, rubbing briskly. 'All right,' Winner repeats, '—just, cold.'

Micheko takes over drying the man, and tosses a towel at Toru, too. He's shaking, wrapping it around himself. Not just the cold. Robe. They had a robe out. He grabs Winner by the wrist and dresses him in it, one arm at a time. 'We should get coffee,' he says, and chokes himself silent when his voice shakes. Not just the cold.

'Relax, Toru.' Micheko touches his shoulder. 'He's all right. It's okay.'

'Commander will wring me by the neck--'

'I'm fine.' Winner grips him weakly. 'But a hot tea wouldn't go amiss.'

'I'll get it.' Micheko stands. 'You should use the showers. Warm up. I'll be right back.'

Winner has rubber legs, clambering awkwardly to his feet like a newly-born lamb. Toru locks his knees and keeps upright by sheer willpower. There are showers in the men's locker, and he flips the nearest onto the highest setting, blasting water that steams quickly. 'Come on,' he tells Winner. 'You first.'

'I'm all right,' Winner repeats, grouchy now. 'I've just had a little shock. You haven't killed me.' He's shivering, which Toru supposes is a good sign, after that frozen pool, and he shakes like a wet dog when he ducks his head under the spray. 'Stop being brave and go get warm yourself.'

Sheepishly Toru shuffles across the cold tile to the next stall. It has a ready supply of hot water, too, welcome indeed after that near-hour in the pool. He puts his own head under, and lets the heat soak him through in a big flush down his body. The shivers don't quite vanish right away, but he can feel all his toes again, breaking out in pinpricks of revived nerves. He closes his eyes under the stream from the shower head.

It's not until he's pulling a fresh supply of towels from the locker that he even thinks to ask. He whips his head about; and Winner is already looking at him.

'Yes,' Winner says.

The rush he feels this time is a curious mix of relief, and disbelief. 'Really? It worked?'

'After a fashion.' Winner is slower, drying himself, fingering down his hair and huddling in his towel. 'It was a strange thing. I've never actually had great success at sensory deprivation experiments-- not intentionally. In fact I think if I hadn't been quite so wrung out it wouldn't have worked at all, but as it was, I felt calm, calmer, than in days. So you could say it worked. Because I did think of something.'

His brief leap to hope is rapidly turning to disappointment. 'Thought of something?'

'Yes.' Winner drapes a towel about his shoulders, modestly clasping it closed over his chest. 'We never settled the question of what Rzhevsky's Newtype ability is. But I think I know. Or I have a good guess, anyway. I think his ability is to locate other Newtypes.'

'So—' He goes blank, trying to figure what that means for their case. It answers for how Rzhevsky selects his victims, but they already knew that; it still doesn't tell them why, or why so many, or what he's getting out of it. It doesn't tell them where Rzhevsky will strike-- next-- 'No,' he says. He slashes a hand through the air. 'No. Not even a little bit. It was stupid and careless to go this far. There is no way I'm taking you back--'

'He'll have to return to his apartment eventually, especially if he thinks those bodies are still there. And if he knows that I'm there, he'll come quicker.' Winner pokes a finger at his ear, rubs a knuckle under his nose. 'Laying bait is a well-accepted strategy.'

'Not when it involves a civilian!'

'Not legally,' Winner shrugs. 'But you're Preventers, aren't you. You make the rules. And I believe I'm--' He sighs, and shrugs again. 'I believe I'm volunteering.'

A knock at the locker door stops him answering. Micheko. She has their drinks, a big cup swinging a string from a teabag for Winner, a sugared coffee for Toru. He manages a small smile of thanks, then jumps out of his skin when sharp fingers take a good pinch of his bare hip. 'Hey,' he says, as his face goes red.

'Picked up your clothes from out there,' Micheko advises. She hands over his shirt and suit, and the same to Winner. 'So, the six-million-dollar-question: success?'

'We're negotiating,' Winner murmurs.

Mickeko looks between them. 'That means what?'

Toru shoulders into his shirt, and wrenches his trousers up damp legs and over wet shorts, pretending not to notice Micheko's little smirk at him. Winner dresses at leisure, buttons matching up to buttonholes, the tails of his shirt placketed precisely before the belt is added. Toru wrings shower-water out of his hair and makes a tail of it, rather than drip over his suit coat. Winner looks at him-- Winner looks at him, has grey bags under his eyes, still with a tremor in his hands, and knows what he's thinking. Knows he's watching himself tip over the edge of acceptable risk. This is more than an excursion into science fiction psychadelics.

'It's within protocol,' Toru says then, reluctant, less reluctant than he thinks a wise agent would be. 'Po did want us to check out the old murder sites. But going right to his apartment? It feels like-- I don't know. Like giving him home advantage.'

'You're thinking of going back to the apartment?' Micheko catches on. 'But we've got five agents staking it out. It can't get much safer right now.'

That's true. That makes him feel a little better. 'Still,' he says. 'We can't make any assumptions about him. All we have is theory. In reality, he could-- what was it you said about him, back at St John's?'

'Flatten city blocks.' Winner buttons his coat. 'Maybe. It's a possibility.'

'This isn't my decision to make.' Toru swipes a drop of water from his jawline. 'This has to go to Commander.'

Micheko nods. 'Then let's get her on the line. And get breakfast while we wait.'

**

'Interesting,' is all Sally says, as Toru tip-toes through his carefully prepared presentation of their idea. Her small office in their make-shift HQ is humid, today, with the door closed, and crowded besides, with four of them in it. Winner gets the only other chair. He'd actually wanted to come in-- he'd said it would be easier-- but Toru can't help watch him huddle there with his iPod cranking out music that really doesn't seem to be helping. There's only six other Preventers in the shop, all waiting as far away as possible, but Winner has his jaw set and looks like he might need the wastebin in a moment. Sally is eyeing him sideways, too.

Toru clears his throat. 'If Rzhevsky's Newtype ability does somehow involve locating other Newtypes, it explains how he's been able to track down so many.'

'But we haven't yet confirmed that all the victims are Newtypes,' Sally interrupts.

'You can take me to the coroner,' Winner answers shortly. 'It won't be long to make it a certainty.'

'Do you know if you can sense-- it-- still-- for however long after they're dead?' Sally props her elbows on her desk, examining Winner with a deepening frown. 'Our oldest victim is seven months dead. Whatever biological or supernatural forces--'

'If you want an empirical test, I can't offer it. I don't even know why I was able to sense the bodies yesterday; but that's a question we might ask Rzhevsky, if you make an effort to capture him alive.'

'We don't issue blanket shoot-to-kill orders, Mr Winner.'

'Forgive me, Commander Po, but you're not speaking to a neophyte. Under any definition of the words Rzhevsky must be considered armed and dangerous. I've just identified a potential of eleven--'

'Twelve,' Micheko mutters.

'Twelve Newtype bodies in Preventers' custody,' Winner says tonelessly. 'I would like to believe that you would place capture first on your priorities.'

'I thought you didn't want us poking around in Newtype business.' Sally sits back with a shrug. 'Interrogations and autopsies seem directly counter to your ideas about what we ought and ought not to know about Newtypes.'

'I'm certainly not in favour of it. But that's twelve less Newtypes than there were before. That is more than enough death. If Rzhevsky can be brought in without any more killing, I think that's reason enough to make sure your people know what their orders are.' Winner quirked his head at her, then turned a dour stare to the wall. 'Once,' he says, 'you would have agreed with me.'

'Maybe I've seen more that convinces me that compassion has to be carefully balanced with realism, Quatre.'

'That is a lie.' He meets her eyes. 'It's a lie we tell ourselves, because it gets harder to live with our choices. Because it's easier to believe we're just doing a job. But it's not true. Compassion was never meant to be easy. It's a choice, with consequences, but still a choice.'

Toru is already wincing. Winner isn't backing down, though, this odd stand he's making to save a life that might not even be theirs to save, and Sally's eyebrows are at dark, angry angles. Her fingers tap the desktop, just the tips, so quietly Toru can't hear it.

'Where did this theory of yours come from?' Sally asks abruptly. 'Are you just doling out information when it suits you? Because two days ago you only thought you could trigger a flash by being in the same vicinity; yesterday you thought you might be able to identify potential victims, and today we're all the way toward entrapping the perp. Bluntly, Quatre, you don't work for me, so I don't appreciate being made to work for you. Our investigation has to consider more lives than Rzhevsky's. Where's your compassion for that? You'd rather protect one bad Newtype than all the others he's killing?'

Micheko kicks Toru's shoe. 'Tell her about the pool,' she whispers.

'I don't believe that it's either-or,' Winner retorts. 'And I am not naïve. I am not a sheltered shut-in wasting your time. I've made the same hard choices you have and I'm telling you there is a choice here. A price, for the choices we make without ever wondering why.'

Toru steps forward. Sally's eyes swivel to him, her mouth tight on words going silent at his interruption. 'Well?' she says. 'He's your charge. What do you think, Toru?'

'I think...' He looks down at Winner, who's sitting with his arms locked around his middle like he'll shatter if nothing holds him together. Toru cracks his knuckles, one after the other, wraps his fingers into fists. 'I think I like his idea better than just roaming around hoping for a clue to fall into our laps. And I think there's more to these Newtype abilities than we know, which means it's possible for Mr Winner's idea to work. We've already tried-- that is, we already attempted a sort of-- experiment. Not experiment, exactly, but a-- a--'

'Agent Walker theorised that Rzhevsky might be amplifying the Newtype flash, to identify victims across greater distance than normally possible,' Winner says. 'With their assistance, I tried to replicate that process, briefly. I can't say if it was unsuccessful or just that there were no other Newtypes present within range, but either way, it suggests there are--'

'Wait, what did you do?' Sally breaks in. 'What do you mean, experiment?'

Winner saves Toru from himself again, answering before he can. 'A meditation exercise,' Winner says. 'Expanded consciousness. As I said, it didn't quite work for me, but that doesn't discount for Rzhevsky--'

'It must have worked a little, at least,' Toru says. 'You glowed.'

Three sets of eyes zero in on him, then. 'Glowed?' Sally repeats, so precisely that it stretches the word to three syllables.

Winner is staring at him the way he does when he's trying to read Toru. 'I can't have done,' he says flatly, but with confusion, too. 'How could I _glow_?'

'You saw it,' Toru waves at Micheko.

She looks taken aback. 'Glowing? I think I'd remember glowing.'

'But you were the one who pointed it out. You said, look at him, that must mean it's working.'

'No,' she denies. She touches his wrist, lets her hand fall. 'I just meant-- he just got really-- quiet and centred. The way you look when you meditate. I thought that meant the flash business must be working.'

It's Toru who's confused, now. 'But I saw it,' he says, some helpless instinct of protest. 'Not like-- not like a big yellow neon, but you were definitely-- hazy.'

'I can't have done,' Winner says again. 'There's no physiological way for me to glow, is there?' He faces forward again. 'I think you need a few hours of rest, Agent Craft.'

He's stung by that. He's tired, but he's not impaired, and he knows what he saw-- thinks he knows--

Sally dismisses him with a short sigh. 'I'm inclined to agree,' she says. 'I suppose I'm inclined to agree about all of it. We're short on options, and since we went to all the trouble of flying you in, Quatre, I suppose it would be especially ridiculous to ignore your ideas. I have no promises to give you about Rzhevsky other than what I've already said: there is no shoot-to-kill order on him as of yet. And if we are able to lure him back to his apartment, as you think, then we'll have greater opportunity to be in control of the situation, and I like that. So that's what we'll do. Agent Walker, coordinate with the team in the flat and fill them in. We'll keep the majority of our people on the street, doing what they're doing in case this doesn't go anywhere, but get another four agents in the building. Agent Craft, go take a nap.'

'What?'

'A nap,' she repeats sternly.

'But this is my op!'

'It's my op,' she corrects him, mild only on the surface. Toru unconsciously straightens his shoulders under her gaze. 'And I suggest the same to you, Quatre. The crib upstairs is empty. Catch an hour while we pull the details together.'

Micheko bites her lip in silent sympathy, but leaves him quickly. Winner rises with Toru's hand under his elbow, and leans on him for just a moment as they open the door. 'This way,' Toru tells him, and pulls him along until Winner shakes him off. Toru presses his lips together on a temperamental outburst, and just climbs the back stairs, leaving Winner behind him to do it on his own power. The second level of the shop is nothing more than a few break-down cots with sleeping bags; it's just a room for his fellow agents to catch a few short hours of rest. Of naps. Like sulky children who don't know when to stop themselves. He can't believe Sally dismissed him like that, in front of Micheko, no less. Like a disobedient little boy.

'You're lucky she believed it was just weariness.' Winner, only a few steps behind him, sinking onto a cot and putting his head in his hands. 'She almost didn't.'

Toru throws his coat onto a chair and stalks to the window. 'I know what I saw,' he insists tightly. There's nothing out the window but another rainy morning, gloom seeping through the glass to chill his fingers where he separates the blinds. 'I didn't imagine it.'

'I know you think you didn't.' Winner rises again, his footsteps dragging on his way to the window. Toru tenses, and decides not to make room for him. If Winner knows about that thought, too, he doesn't say anything about it. He just joins Toru there, propping an arm up on the wall, leaning his head on the wooden frame. 'May I be frank?' he asks.

'Can I stop you?'

'Now you are acting like a child.' Winner folds his arms over his chest and faces Toru. 'Let me tell you what happens when people start to think you're crazy, Craft. We're a judgmental race. Don't give your commanders any reasons to question you. With your ancestry, it won't take much for them to suspect you.'

'I did see it. It went on for almost the entire time you were in the pool.'

Winner exhales softly. 'Stop thinking of the worst. You're not a Newtype.'

That is far too private a guess, even for Winner. Toru locks his jaw; he feels a lurch in his gut, a wash of anger, and it leaves him drained just as quickly, thread-bare and tired. 'I saw you glow. I saw you doing something with your Newtype abilities. My father--'

'It's not an inherited trait.'

'That we know of. There's no proof, not yet.'

'You really are frightened of it. That's why you've been so wary of me.' Winner takes his elbow, this time, a firm, kind touch. 'Do you believe that I would be honest with you? Would you trust me to tell you the truth?'

'But you can read my thoughts,' Toru says. 'You could-- if you really have been-- you know.'

Winner's mouth opens, then shuts. He wets his lips, and hesitates again. Toru stares at his ragged nails. So. Silence is a kind of answer.

Then suddenly Winner does speak. 'I know of three successful Newtype experiments produced by the Resistance,' he says. 'I know it was part of the original design of Operation Meteor. The man who funded Meteor, Dekim Barton, he wanted more than just super-weapons. He wanted super-soldiers to pilot them. And he believed the answer was the Newtype. It's not--'

As Toru looks up, Winner is gazing at him, eyes locking with his, urgent and tender even, all at once. 'It's got a chequered history, the Newtype philosophy,' Winner says, and Toru nods without understanding, because Winner seems to want him to. 'It began as just a new-age positive thinking thing, a trend like any of a dozen others. But it was far more persistent. By the time they were devising Gundams, Dekim Barton was reviving the Newtype as an experiment in metaphysical enhancement. He believed if he could find people, his pilots, especially young people-- children-- children who already had certain inborn, inherent sensitivities-- that he could mould those sensitivities into abilities. Create, as it were, a new kind of human, one who could do with his mind what computer technology could only complement. But of the five people who eventually piloted the Gundams, only three actually underwent the experiment. Heero Yuy, myself, and the original pilot of Gundam Shenlong.'

'The original,' Toru says, not thinking even now, and wishing he hadn't spoken when Winner swallows something back. 'I'm sorry, please just continue.'

'No, this is part of the story.' Winner wipes his hands on his trousers, clasps them tightly together. 'The original pilot of Gundam Shenlong was a girl. I don't know much more about her other than that she was a Newtype. She died before the Gundams were completed, but it was too late, by then, to bring her replacement into the programme. Chang Wufei may or may not have had natural-- natural--'

'Sensitivities.'

'Yes. I'm sorry-- it's difficult to explain. He might have had some natural ability, but it was never developed, and there seems to be a point past which it can't be consciously evoked.' Winner shrugs uneasily.

'What about the others?' Toru asks then. 'Trowa Barton and Duo--'

'Maxwell. Duo's situation is unique. I think he was simply lucky. He was protected from Dekim's experiments. There are-- were-- records, but Duo maintains he never participated in anything other than training for piloting the Gundam. I think the records were falsified. And I think Duo is simply a normal person with extraordinary talents, completely natural talents. Trowa... the real Trowa Barton was Dekim Barton's son. Barton was killed shortly before the launch of Operation Meteor. My Trowa-- I mean-- our Trowa-- today's Trowa-- he agreed to impersonate Barton's son, and it appears that he got away with it til it was far too late for Dekim to do anything about it. So our Trowa was never part of the Gundam programme at all, much less the Newtype experiment. As for those of us who were, Heero and myself, it had quite different results. Heero's ability seems to be a kind of instant comprehension of potentiality. Most of us, when we look at something that must be done, we see the steps involved, and we might be able to anticipate two or three or five tasks that need to be accomplished to get us toward that goal, but we can't foresee more than that, and so a thing seems impossible to us. For Heero, almost anything is possible, because he instantly grasps the conditions that must be fulfilled. Heero can bend steel, he can outfight armies, he can use weapons in a way no weapon should be able to work-- that's all because of the Newtype ability. In a way that's why he was more compatible with the Zero System than I was, though it was designed for me. Zero essentially created algorithms to do what Heero did with his mind.'

'And your ability? Being able to read people?'

'When I was a child I would know when people were sad. Sometimes I could make them feel better, if I wanted it badly enough. A minor kind of empathy. By the time I was recruited for Operation Meteor I could predict when a telephone would ring and who would be calling. I could guess the suit of cards without seeing the face. Identify people on the other side of a wall. After the Newtype experiments, I could hear their thoughts. But it's not really as simple as reading minds. That's one product of it, but it's really more an ability to identify structure in states of flux. Our minds are always changing, our feelings, our identities. That's why Zero was designed for me. Zero operates on the principle that there is no one constant reality. In every change there is something that persists through the change, and something else which didn't exist before, but only comes into being because of the change.'

That's food for thought, and it's tempting to chase that down, but this is closer than Toru has ever come to the real story, and he doesn't want to lose the thread of it, not when Winner actually wants to talk about it. With an effort, Toru forces himself to focus. 'So that's where the Newtypes began to develop. Because of what Barton did in Operation Meteor.'

'It was a beginning. It has more to do with the people who were involved in the programme. The men who designed the Gundams were scientists, you see. And I believe that some of them, maybe all of them, had begun their careers as military consultants. It was a common practise, in the Alliance days. Universities were the perfect recruiting grounds for the military complex-- a constant source of well-off, educated young people who would be ambitious and eager. The Gundam prototype was designed with military funding on Earth. But the key to it is that they were scientists. And scientists, on Earth or in the Colonies, all do one thing in common-- they share knowledge. So even when Dekim Barton started paying them instead of Alliance, they had to pull from the same resources they'd always been using.'

'Other scientists.'

'Yes. And so some ideas were developing in different places, for different purposes, all at the same time. The Gundams were one. And the Newtype experiments were another.'

This is it. Toru takes a deep breath, for calm, for sheer spiritual strength. 'My father.'

'I believe so,' Winner confirms softly. 'Certainly your father. Lady Une. Possibly Treize Khushrenada. Maybe even your mother, although I've never really thought she showed the same signs of it.'

'The-- instability.'

'Something happens. I don't know what. How. But in every case I have ever seen or read about or even heard in passing, something happens in the onset of adulthood. It might be hormonal, connected to the cessation of development of brain function-- I don't know. But the Newtype abilities invariably grow beyond the limit of control. Heero disappeared right at the age I was just discovering it for myself. Your father... you know what he did.'

'Libra,' Toru says bleakly. 'He turned into a madman.'

Winner shakes his head, a minute protest that fades into silence. 'It feels like madness sometimes,' he says finally. 'But that's the hell of it. There's not even that escape.'

'Mr Winner.'

'You don't have it, Toru.'

His throat closes. 'You don't know for sure,' he manages, no air, no voice.

Winner takes his wrist, reaches across the distance to touch Toru's chest. 'You don't have it. Trust me to tell you the truth. You shouldn't fear it. You're not on borrowed time, you're not going to become a raving monster or a cripple like me. You're an intelligent, capable, determined young man, and everything you are is yours alone. Do you believe me?'

He about manages a nod, a bare dip of his head. He does. It's not quite relief-- it's been in the back of his mind for too long, eating away. But he's eighteen years old, and Winner is looking him in the eye, and he may be seeing glowing auras, but-- he believes Winner.

Winner gives his arm a squeeze. 'Good man,' he says. 'Now go nap. We'll need it, later.'

The cot sags under his weight as he sits gingerly. 'Mr Winner?'

'Please call me Quatre.' Winner sits heavily, and lies back immediately, to put the earplugs of his iPod back in. 'And no. Sally doesn't suspect you. But as someone who's been through all this, I'd advocate for you keeping your doubts between us, right now.'

'Not a bad idea.' He has to convince himself to lie flat. His head gets a heavy swooshy feeling, which probably means he needs this nap as much as everyone thinks. He blinks spots out of his eyes. 'Mr-- Quatre-- why did you agree to leave St John's with me? I thought-- had thought-- maybe it was because you'd felt a flash. From me.'

'Nothing that complicated.' Winner drapes an arm over his eyes. 'You sassed me. It got my back up. I'm both very crazy and very rich, Toru. No-one but you has sassed me in a long, long time.'

He's too tired to smile at that. But he believes it.

**

He makes a careful sweep with his fingers to brush Winner's hair away from the shell of his ear. 'The mike is plenty sensitive, so don't try to speak louder or lean in on anyone,' he tells Winner. 'It won't be visible during a casual once-over; if he finds it, game is over, and we come in on you.'

'Same with the camera,' Po adds. 'It's going to be here on your third button down. Don't fuss with it, try not to block it, but most importantly don't act like it's there.'

'Yes,' Winner says, too calm about the entire business. Toru curls his fingers into fists and pushes them deep into his pockets.

'Let's run through the scenario one more time.' Po perches on the edge of her desk, gazing down on Winner from that height. 'You'll appear to be alone, but we'll have you on scope the entire time, covered by sharpshooters, and we'll have agents in plainclothes all close enough to prevent trouble. However, I don't want to downplay the possibility that you could be at risk of injury. That's why we have strict rules about the involvement of civilians.'

'I signed the waivers already.'

'Yes, but it doesn't lessen Preventers' responsibility to ensure your safety. Tell me the code words.'

Winner sighs out a soft breath. 'If all's well and I want to keep it going longer, I say “Winslowe”. If he pulls out a weapon of any kind, I say “Pepper”. If I need help, “Proctor”.'

'And if you're in immediate danger, you scream and you get out of the way. Think you can remember those words for the next few hours?'

'I'm not just any civilian.' Winner rebuttons his shirt, and sets an earplug in the ear without the mike. 'I'm confident in your plan of action.'

Po leans down to yank out the plugs. 'Excuse me, Mr Winner, but if it's not too terribly inconvenient, we'll finish going over protocol. Not the least to cover my ass, whatever concerns you have for your own.' She waits, pointedly, for Winner to give her a grudging nod. 'Now. The code words are important, but the primary concern is going to be you keeping calm no matter what you hear from Rzhevsky. Tell me right now if you think you can't do that.'

'I believe I have sufficient experience in high-pressure environments.'

'Not since you were seventeen, Mr Winner, and your current mental state is fragile, to say the least.'

Toru wishes she hadn't said that. He wishes Winner hadn't pushed her to say it. It's not helpful, not at this moment, even if Winner is just being stubborn again. He steps sideways, so that his elbow digs into Winner's shoulder, rocking him just a bit. Winner looks up at him, and Toru elbows him again.

'I can be calm for the duration,' Winner mumbles.

'Thank you,' Po replies. 'I trust so. We're hoping he'll want to talk. We have more than enough evidence to connect him to the murders, but we have a better shot at a life sentence if he records a confession. I'm not asking you for a miracle, but I think we're all hoping for the same thing. If he wants to talk about it, let him. Facilitate him. Our agents will be listening in and we'll be right nearby.'

'Understood. Keep him talking.'

'Right.' Po taps her fingers on her knee. 'Are you really up to this, Quatre? If you say no, there's no judgment. I know you feel strongly about this.'

'I do, yes. I just want to get started.'

'All right.' Po catches Toru's eyes. 'A moment, Agent Craft. Quatre, go check in with First Aid. Let them know anything about allergies to medications or other medical conditions, okay.'

Toru watches him go. Po watches, too, and watches him as well, chewing the inside of her cheek. 'What's your assessment?' she asks him.

'Of his readiness? I think he can do it.'

'Really?'

'Yes,' Toru says firmly, or as firmly as he can. 'He's shown a certain amount of-- creativity under pressure. During the pool-- experience. Coming up with the kind of information we really wanted about Rzhevsky.'

'Are you doing okay with him? With the babysitting detail.'

'Yes, Commander.' She's waiting for more, and he knows it, but he's not certain what, if anything, to say. He's thinking about what Winner told him about the Newtypes, and knows Po would want to hear it all, too. There's details in what Winner told him that aren't in their official file, may not be even in the unofficial files. But the words aren't coming. His tongue isn't tied, it's just-- he doesn't want to tell her. He's never not told her anything, this woman who did more to raise him, provide for him, guide him--

He says, 'I should teach him to meditate.'

Po blinks first. 'Winner?'

'To meditate. Like you taught me. To control his-- himself.'

'If you can accomplish that in your down time over the next few days, go for it.'

'Next few days?'

Po stands. 'He's not a puppy, Toru. He has to go home when we're done with this case. So concentrate on getting him through this confrontation with Rzhevsky, okay?'

Winner is having his blood pressure taken when Toru joins him in the shop floor outside Po's office. 'He's in good condition,' the medic tells Toru, with a brisk, impersonal smile for Winner. 'Blood sugar is a little low. I'd rather he eat something before we send him out there.'

'I'm really not sure I can eat just now,' Winner says. His jaw is set. Nerves, maybe. Or just the presence of the medic, a stranger with a new mind making noise only Winner can hear. Toru takes him by the elbow as the pressure sleeve comes off, and walks him to the window.

'You're sure?' he asks one final time.

'I'm sure.' Winner rubs the back of his neck, drops his chin to his chest with a sigh. 'Just please tell me again you'll make every effort to capture him unharmed.'

'The only harm I'm worried about is to you.'

Winner has an odd little smile on his face, for a moment. 'You'll feel better on the other side of it,' he comments, and puts in his earplugs. 'And not a moment before. I know.'

He doesn't drive, this time. They take the mobile response van, with the techs bringing up all the sound equipment and the video, running Winner through a few last-minute tests. Winner is patient enough, to Toru's surprise. If Winner has any nerves at all it doesn't show, not now. He's just patient, but not faded out like before, not distracted. Locked in. Focussed. His breaths are deep, regular. Toru fidgets and tries not to, sits on his hands, presses them tight between his knees. He's never been in battle, not like Winner. He's never been in an operation this size, this serious, for that matter. While seeing people glow.

He closes his eyes, and spends the twenty-minute drive meditating.

They park well away from Rzhevsky's flat, in the alley by the little pub where Toru had bought hamburgers a mere twenty-four hours ago. He can't quite believe that. It undoes all the good of his brief meditation and puts him right back on pins and needles, with the addition of a ticking clock. He can only hope Rzhevsky hasn't been out mutilating a new victim. The homeless woman they spoke to yesterday is gone, all trace of her pile of things removed. It worries him, that.

Winner pats his wrist. 'The what-ifs don't help,' he murmurs. 'Let them go.'

'Commander says the important thing is to think about the end-goal.'

'Not the end-goal. Just the next step. End-goals change. If you get too far ahead of yourself, you're not reactive, but paralysed. The rest will do itself without any help from you.' He stands, hunched over in the narrow van with a big speaker digging into his collar. 'Am I good to go?'

'I'll be in the van,' Toru tells him, rising as well and scrunching them into the corner by the door. 'I'll be listening. The code words--'

'I know the code words.' Winner nods to the techs. 'I'll see you soon, Agent Craft.'

'See you soooon, Agent,' Fagerland mocks, a falsetto swoon as soon as Winner is out the door.

'Shut up, Kay.'

'And if you can't remember to shut up, I'll help you put a sock in it,' Soltis tells her partner sharply. 'That man's done more than you'll ever think of.'

'Colonial solidarity is old hat, Em.'

'Not where I come from, Fagerland.' Soltis nods at Toru. 'We're good on the equipment. Grab a set of headphones.'

Toru yanks the cord close, and puts his back to Fagerland so he can watch the screens. Two are the camera that Winner's wearing, bobbing as he walks up the street. There's another angle, from above, as Preventers hack into the local surveillance and track Winner from camera to camera on live feed. There other three screens are angles from equipment Preventers installed around Rzhevsky's flat yesterday, one from the second storey aimed down at the building's entrance, two from the street triangulating it. Winner sits almost centre of their view, right on the steps. The wind buffets his bare hair crazily before it dies, and he scrapes it back, buries his hands in his pockets. There are little spits of rain, but nothing constant. Winner keeps his coat open so the camera in his buttonhole will film, but wraps his scarf tight as the minutes tick past.

'How sure is he that Rzhevsky can feel him the way he can feel Rzhevsky?' Soltis asks.

'It's a theory.' Toru adjusts the volume of his headphones, up until they buzz, lowering it to a tolerable level. 'Winner thinks that Rzhevsky's Newtype ability is finding other Newtypes. So, theoretically, he'll feel Winner here and come hunting.'

'If he's still here.'

'Yeah.'

They're approaching a half hour. Winner turns up the collar of his coat and puts on his gloves. 'How long do we wait?' Fagerland yawns.

'You got places to be?' his partner retorts.

'I'm hungry.'

'Eat a granola.'

Toru digs his teeth into his lower lip. The narrow seats of the van are hard to sit on, and he's a natural squirmer. Winner is just sitting there, leaning back on his elbows now, eyes closed one minute, staring up at the sky the next. It could be hours, before Rzhevsky senses anything. Or even days, if he's off in some other part of London, looking for a Newtype in a neighbourhood far from Clerkenwell. If he's already got a victim. Maybe they should have tried the amplification experiment again. Micheko would have backed him on that. She's with the team around the actual flat, upstairs, hidden in the stairwell, in the bedroom, suffering through the waiting just like he is. Other agents have told him this is what it's like-- a lot of waiting, a little bit of doing, and then more waiting after. He doesn't like it. It makes him itchy under the skin, too much time for thinking. He thinks Winner might actually be sleeping, out there. He's got his head pillowed on one arm. It's raining, or snowing, or something wet anyway.

One hour fifteen minutes. 'Give me one of those granolas,' Toru says.

'What's it like working with him?' Soltis asks him. She passes him a wrapped bar. 'My pop fought at Libra. He even met Duo Maxwell, before the Haddad Rebellion.'

'He's interesting,' Toru allows. 'But it hasn't been but a couple of days.'

'Sure.' She unwraps a slice of gum and sticks it between her teeth. 'Still. Slice of history. It's not everyday, you know.'

'Yeah.' Hour twenty. 'Put on his mike? I want to check in on him.'

'You his mommy or his sweetheart?' Fagerland gave a button a double tap. 'You're on.'

Toru clamps down his smart answer for that. 'Quatre, it's me,' he says. 'How you doing out there?'

On the camera, Winner stretches, rolls his head. _'Damp,'_ he replies. _'Any news?'_

'Not yet. Just making sure you're all right there.'

_'I haven't felt him yet. We knew it might take a while.'_

'Right. Okay. Well-- don't talk too much. In case he's watching, somehow. But let me know if you need to come in, get warm.'

_'Thank you, Agent.'_

'Listen to that,' Soltis says. 'Some people in this Sphere still have manners. Fancy that, Craft.'

They take turns resting their eyes, Toru first, then the two techs. They eat sandwiches out of a cooler at lunch, sip Lucozade and coffee. They pass the four hour mark before Winner goes to the pub for a loo break and a tea; Toru watches that adventure anxiously, but Winner's back to his spot on the steps before long. Five hours. Toru wakes up abruptly sometime just past the sixth, blinks himself out of a stupor, and puts another pot of coffee on to percolate. Soltis starts yawning and can't stop, so Toru switches seats with her and lets her lay down on the back bench. It's dark out already, it's that kind of day, and Winner just sits out there in a ring of light from the street lamps, getting snowed on in the night.

It's past midnight when they drink the last of their coffee. Fagerland is pooling their cash, looking up the map for the nearest convenience store. Toru is bending for his coat, trying to dig out the bills he knows are in there, and movement catches his eye. He shoves Fagerland out of the way and pushes the camera in, slaps for that button that works the mike. 'Quatre?'

'What's up?' Fagerland is asking. 'Wait-- the hell--'

'Quatre, answer me. Where the hell are you.'

'How did he go without us seeing it?' Soltis is sliding onto the seat next to him, and Toru has to stand to get out of her way. 'Where the fuck is he? Cycle the local feeds, Kay.'

'Quatre, I don't care what your situation is, I need a code word from you now.' They can't find him on the cameras. Toru's heart is pounding so hard he feels light-headed. 'You don't get to keep scaring me like this. I need an answer from you now.'

'I've got the footage.' Soltis swirls a knob, and the camera feed on the screen above Toru's head rewinds. 'Look. What's that haze? Fog? It's not foggy.'

Not foggy. And not a haze. An aura. A glow. Toru tries to swallow, and can't. 'Quatre,' he says again. 'Quatre, I need a code now, or we blow this open coming after you.'

He almost doesn't hear it, even as hard as he's listening for it. Fagerland is the one who catches it, grabs for the volume. It's definitely Winner's voice, just barely a whisper.

'What did he say?' Soltis demands.

'Winslowe.' Toru slumps against the seat. 'He said Winslowe. He's all right.'

'What in all hell just happened?' Fagerland is scouring the footage. 'We've got fog and he disappears. How does that happen?'

Toru wipes sweating palms on his trousers. 'Quatre, we don't have feed from your camera. I need you to figure that out on your end.'

Seconds tick by. Then the screens monitoring Winner's button camera flutter. Black to grey to black again-- then suddenly bright with defined shapes. 'His coat must have been covering it,' Toru says numbly. 'God. We thought about that but not that it would happen at the same time as everything else.'

'All right, we're back online. Let's figure this out.' Soltis is feeding rapidly through the footage. 'I don't have Rzhevsky from any angle. Just that fog that presages Winner disappearing.'

'Go the grid with the local surveillance cameras. We need to pick him up. Wait--' The bob and tilt of Winner's button cam pauses, just for a moment, and Toru beats Fagerland to the pause. 'That's a street sign. What's it say?'

'I've got four numbers on that car plate too. I can match that to the surveillance cams.'

'There!' Fagerland points. 'That's Winner rounding the corner. Sol, follow him for the cross-street May with--'

'There.' Toru rears to his feet. 'He's six blocks ahead of us. I'm pursuing on foot. Keep me on the mike and inform me of any direction changes.' He grabs his coat and checks his gun one-handed. 'Tell HQ.'

'Wait, Craft.' Soltis whirls to toss him a small pad. 'I'll keep the feed live for you.'

'Thanks.' He kicks open the van door and jumps to the pavement below. He lets them worry about closing it again, and sprints for the corner. The light is red, but he runs out into traffic anyway, dodging a slow-moving lorry and just barely skimming in front of a much faster car. He careens onto the kerb and puts his head down into a dead run.


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Winner?' Rzhevsky swings around to his computer and enters it in. Rzhevsky casts Toru a short glance, and ignores him. 'Well,' Rzhevsky says then. 'Not just any Newtype. Quatre Raberba Winner, also known as Pilot Oh-Four of the Gundam programme. I've waited a long time to meet you, Pilot. You disappeared on me a long time ago. How interesting that you should be waiting for me, after all these years, and that you come with Preventers on your leash.'_

_'Left,'_ Soltis says in his ear. _'Two lefts, then a right. Winner's going at an angle.'_

Left. Toru has to cross traffic again, and nearly knocks over a messenger on a bike. He's gone maybe two blocks-- three blocks, passing a warehouse and a bookstore and a curry shop-- four blocks, slipping on wet pavement and saving himself by slapping a hand against a brick wall, scraping himself raw-- _'Right and then straight for a block,'_ Soltis says in his ear. _'Slow up, he's there in front of you. Po's got other teams closing in.'_

Toru puts his back to the alley wall as he moves in. He pries his gun from its holster and holds it low against his thigh, thumbing off the safety. His head is hot from the run, but he forces himself to breathe slowly, softly, through the nose, to make no unnecessary noise. One foot over the other, arms free and loose. 'Am I on mike with Winner?' he whispers to Soltis.

_'You're on. He isn't making a peep.'_

Time for real caution, now. If Rzhevsky can sense people like Winner can, their op will be blown. But there's no reason to think that. Not yet. Not even Winner's glowing vanishing act. Just a trick, a distraction. Toru inhales deeply, and moves away from the wall.

He spots them immediately. They're a full block ahead, moving at a slower pace than him, but covering ground quickly. Winner walks with his head down, his collar still high, and his arm seized tight by the tall man who walks beside him. Rzhevsky. 'I have him in sight,' Toru whispers. 'Six foot four, at least, dark hat. Coat is dark blue or black. No outwardly identifying features. They're turning at the corner of--'

_'Corner of Spencer and Myddelton.'_

'Quatre.' Toru hides his gun in the drape of his coat and strikes a normal stride, to keep the pair ahead of him just far enough ahead. They're not looking back, but if they did, they shouldn't be able to see anything out of the ordinary, just another man walking on the street. 'Quatre,' he murmurs, 'if you're still all right, say the code word.'

No answer. 'Soltis?' he checks.

 _'Nothing. No response.'_ A short pause, and then she says, _'Be advised. You've got a team on either side of you, one on foot and the other in an unmarked vehicle. We lost the sharpshooters; they're waiting on new coordinates, as soon as Rzhevksky stops moving. We're following in the van, at a distance.'_

'Roger.' The rain is getting worse. It's not enough to affect visibility, not yet, but it's dead dark, and if they make a turn out of the main streets, he could lose them. He takes the risk and pulls in closer, only a half-block between them now. 'No answer yet from Winner?'

_'No.'_

'I think he's walking strangely. Rzhevsky may be holding him up. He's definitely stumbling.'

_'Craft, this is Po. Stumbling how?'_

'He almost looks drunk, ma'am. We still don't have an indication from him on status.'

_'Do you see a weapon? Is Rzhevksy making any overtly threatening moves?'_

'No. I don't think so.'

_'Then for the moment we keep calm.'_

'We didn't have any other murders in Islington, did we? Where could he be taking Winner?'

_'None we know of. Though we never found the bodies that went with the heads in his apartment.'_

True. Not a good truth. Winner almost goes to his knees stepping off the kerb, and Toru has to plaster himself to a shop window as Rzhevsky bends over to help him up. Rzhevsky is practically carrying him, now, and Winner's head is lolling.

'He must be drugged,' Toru whispers. 'Maybe that's how he got the other Newtypes to go with him before. Did you get that footage cleaned up, Soltis? Do we have any idea how Rzhevsky would have got close enough to drug Winner without Winner alerting us?'

_'We're working on the tape. Honestly, Craft, it looks like Winner just got up and walked to him. We can't get anything off of the camera that recorded Winner leaving the steps, but we have surveillance footage that shows them meeting up about two hundred feet away.'_

'Drug paraphernalia?'

_'None visible. They don't even talk. They just turn and start walking.'_

'They're going into a building.' Toru ducks into a doorway. It's just like the place where Preventers set up their HQ, a shop on the lower level with residential space above. Rzhevsky looks both ways up the street, and Toru holds his breath, but it seems Rzhevsky doesn't see him there. 'He's got a key,' Toru reports. 'They're going in. If they lock it, I won't be able to enter without alerting them. Approaching.'

_'Hold off on that,' Po orders him. 'Wait for the other teams. We monitor until I give the go.'_

'If we lose them, we'll have to escalate, and Winner will be in danger. I can approach.'

_'Stand down, Craft, that's an order.'_

'I can do it, Commander.' Rzhevsky opens the door, and hauls Winner through it. Toru sucks in a deep breath, and breaks into a run for the steps. 'Hey!' he calls. 'Hold that door?'

Rzhevsky's head whips about. Toru doesn't leave time for questions. He grabs for the door, slipping on the snowy steps. 'Hey,' he says again, 'um, thanks. Lost my key. You live here too? Hey, your friend okay?'

'Drunk.' It's the first word he's heard from Rzhevsky, and despite himself, he feels a hard, cold thrill at it. Soft accent, gravelly, Eastern European, maybe. The face is older than the one in their file, grey feathering short dark hair, lines carved deep around the eyes and mouth. Mouth that smiles, stiffly. 'Sorry,' Rzhevsky says. 'Maybe you wouldn't mind helping on the stairs? He's heavier than he looks.'

'Oh. Sure.' God, Winner's completely out of it. Toru wraps an arm about him, the arm with the gun, and uses the flap of Winner's coat to hide his weapon. Rzhevsky holds the door for him, and Toru angles Winner through. Winner stumbles on the jamb. Toru grabs him up, fast, with an eye on Rzhevsky. No reaction.

'Third storey,' Rzhevsky says then, nodding up the stairs just ahead of them. 'You live in the building? I haven't met you yet.'

'Just sub-letting.' The door swings shut. They're locked inside now, and the other Preventers teams won't have entry without breaking down the door. And his communications have gone silent, waiting to see what he's up to, how it plays out. Waiting on him for a code for go. 'Your friend really went at it,' Toru says, and leans Winner up against the stairwell wall for balance. He taps Winner on the cheek, and gets glazed eyes that slide sideways of his.

'He had some bad news today.' Rzhevsky stays at polite distance from him, non-threatening distance. No weapons visible, and he's not even looking at Toru. Just Winner, who looks like he might faint, looks like he might be having some kind of stroke. 'Here, I'll take his left. Thanks for your help. You have a name, neighbour?'

'Tony.' They shake. Rzhevsky's hand is cold, and it's not just Toru's imagination. His grip is callused and hard. Toru squeezes back with equal strength, and not a smidge more. 'You and your friend?'

'Sorry for your trouble.' Not an answer. Rzhevsky pulls Winner's arm, and together they get him moving up the stairs. Winner's head falls to Toru's shoulder, then droops. Toru can't feel if he's breathing regularly, but Winner is hot, and flushed now too, and though he lifts his feet for each step, he does it with eyes listless and unfocussed. 'Hold just a moment,' Rzhevsky says, digging in a pocket. 'He's going to--'

Toru feels it just in time to cushion Winner to his knees. Winner retches, spitting out a stream of foamy bile. 'Christ,' Toru says, grabbing to support him. 'Are you all right? Can you hear me? No, keep your head down, you won't choke. Can you hear me?' His own heart is pounding now and he almost breaks character, very nearly shouts it out, because Po is on the line and they need help, right now, they need-- 'He's seizing!' Toru gasps, and tangles his legs in Winner's trying to keep him steady, trying to stop his sudden limp slide down the stairs. All caution to the wind. 'We need--' he begins.

And then there's a sharp jolting pain to his neck, and then there's blackness.

 

**

 

At first it's just breathing. His own breathing, something heavy on his chest, hurting with each inhale. But not just him. Winner. He knows it's Winner by the gleam of gold, a blur of pale hair he can see through his tearing eyes. Winner breathing. Alive.

Then a soft grunt. The whispery rustle of fabric, which means a person. A person who's not them, because he's prone and Winner is stretched out beside him, in this dark room wherever they are. There's a low whistle, which ends abruptly. And then nothing else for a long time.

It takes all the effort and will he can gather to roll onto his back. It eases the compression of his lungs, but there's dust all around, stirred up by his feeble movements, and the tickle in his throat becomes a cough that he struggles to smother. No noise. And no noise from his earpiece, because he can't feel the earpiece now. His coat is gone, as well, and that means-- that means so is the pad from the techs in the van, and it means his gun.

And his badge. And that means that Rzhevsky knows he's a Preventer.

He doesn't have a sense of how much time has passed. But they're not on stairs, and the ceiling above him is a white blob, no help at all. His head aches sharply when he tries to turn it. He bites his tongue until it fades into a nauseating throb.

'Awake?' A boot prods his ribs, not roughly. It's Rzhevsky, bending over him. Toru can feel him there, and keeps his eyes closed, his face slack, but can't help a flinch when he feels cold fingers on his neck. Probing the sore spot on the back of his head. 'You're not bleeding,' Rzhevsky tells him, indifferent tone, and yet still not hurting him, despite the blow that put him out cold. 'Any other discomfort? Come, I know you're awake. An answer won't cost you anything, and it might improve your situation.'

Toru gives in, unsure about his choice, but wanting information. When he opens his eyes, Rzhevsky is right there, crouched above him. Toru lifts his bound hands. 'You're cutting off my circulation,' he replies coolly. 'Other than that, I'm peachy.'

Rzhevsky's flat mouth curls, for just a moment. 'With apologies, the rope remains. For your own safety. If you tried to fight me, you'd hurt yourself.' He rises, and then it's Winner he approaches. Toru sits up, or tries to; he makes it to his elbows before a wash of sick takes him, and he sucks in his breath, holds it tightly. When he can see again, Rzhevsky is hauling Winner up, to lay him out in a big chair. Dentist-like chair, and Winner's head is still lolling, but Toru sees one thing very clearly. Winner is awake.

'Your companions?' Rzhevsky makes short work, stripping Winner out of his coat, his scarf, his shirt. 'Preventers? Police? Someone else?'

'I'm alone,' Toru lies. 'This is assault. And kidnapping. And whatever you're planning--'

'Be calm, young man,' Rzhevsky advises tonelessly. 'And you are not alone. How long do we have? I don't suppose it matters. We have time enough to finish our business.'

'And what exactly is your business?'

'Not with you.' There's a little rolling stool, on stubby legs, and Rzhevsky pulls it under him, sits comfortably enough for a man who's just admitted he's caught. 'And if you don't mind, I'd like to focus on my friend here. You may observe, if you're quiet. If you're not, I'll do something about it.'

Toru tries to swallow on a dry throat. 'What do you want with him. Who is he to you?'

He gets a long look of warning. He's seen a lot, as a Preventer, seen agents who've killed in the line of duty, soldiers who've killed in battle, and men who've killed for less than that, but he's never seen a look like this one. This isn't just a man who's killed. This is a killer, a man who ends life because he can and because he wants to.

Winner interrupts before Toru quite figures out what answer he might have given. Slurring, stilted, Winner says, 'What did you give me?'

Rzhevsky faces him. 'Don't worry about it,' he tells Winner briskly. 'It doesn't matter now. Let's begin, shall we?'

Winner might respond, if Toru tries to reach him. If he's drugged, if he's drugged so much he can't resist whatever dire thing Rzhevsky's going to try now, then Toru might be watching him die in a minute. But if he calls Rzhevsky's bluff and tries to interfere, he might be fighting for his own life instead, and there's no guarantee he'd win.

In the precious seconds it's taking him to decide, there's a faint thump from far above. It shivers the walls, but it's gone instantaneously. It's not until it repeats that Toru is sure what it is-- Preventers, doing exactly as Toru said, breaking down the door.

Winner speaks again. 'I know who you are,' he mumbles. 'Ivan. It means... God is merciful.'

'Now how do you know that?' There's a tray on the small table beside the chair. Rzhevsky unwraps a plastic package from it. 'What else do you know, eh?'

'You killed them. I know you killed them.'

Rzhevsky goes still. 'You can't know anything about that,' he begins, and then nods to himself. 'Ah. This must be your ability. Does it come to you in voices, or do you see the future?'

'No.' 

Toru makes it from his elbows upright, this time, and finds the leg of a tall cabinet to set his back against. His head still hurts, but his vision is clearing, and he takes in the room in a quick sweep. They might be underground, given the direction of that thumping overhead, silent now; there's no windows, but the wall to his left has a seep of wet dripping down it. Silence. Preventers must be in the building, that public door was glass and wood and nothing that would offer real resistance. But if Rzhevsky has this space ready for himself, then it's likely reinforced, like his apartment. And perhaps far more secure, if Rzhevsky is this calm. There's a desk here, a computer, Toru catalogues automatically, three laptop screens, paper notes, and those are test tubes, scientific equipment. Is that it? Experiments? He's hunting down Newtypes to run tests of some kind?

Rzhevsky is tapping his knee, in quiet contemplation of Winner's face. 'No, it's not voices, or no, it's not predictions?'

'Not... you... what did you give me?' There's a new pitch of alarm in that. Winner stirs, but Rzhevsky absently puts a hand on his chest, pushes him down.

'The chemical composition won't mean anything to you,' Rzhevsky replied at length. 'And it won't matter, shortly.'

Winner's breathing is laboured. Fear, or a reaction to the drug? He seems so weak. 'Because you're going to kill me,' he says.

'Yes.' Abruptly Rzhevsky abandons the exchange. He finishes unwrapping the package, and dons latex gloves, snaps them tight. 'It's nothing you've done,' he adds, almost comfortingly. 'It's because--'

'Because I'm a Newtype.'

'Yes.' Rzhevsky frowns. 'You're hearing my thoughts. That is your ability. And if you're able to do so, then the dose I gave you is not quite enough. You're stronger than I thought.'

There's a new impact, much closer. Rzhevsky never looks, but Toru does, trying to see where it might have been. There seems to be a little corridor, an extra few hundred square feet beyond this lab. A basement flat? How many more places does this man have access to, scattered around the city for his prey?

'Tell me what it is,' Winner asks him. 'Please. I don't-- I want-- I want to know.'

'I suppose if it's that important to you. It's a suppressant. For your abilities. I've found it keeps this process free of any inconvenience or distraction. It won't harm you.' Rzhevsky takes Winner by the arm again, to tie a rubber tourniquet, to prepare a syringe. 'I won't hurt you, where I can avoid it. I'm afraid that is all the mercy I can spare you.'

'Why are you doing it? Why kill your own kind?'

'Ah,' Rzhevsky said. 'Now that is a much larger question. I don't think we really have the time to discuss it.' The needle goes in, and then is returned to the tray. 'Now, I will ask you some questions. Name.'

'Quatre Winner.'

'Winner?' Rzhevsky swings around to his computer and enters it in. Rzhevsky casts Toru a short glance, and ignores him. 'Well,' Rzhevsky says then. 'Not just any Newtype. Quatre Raberba Winner, also known as Pilot Oh-Four of the Gundam programme. I've waited a long time to meet you, Pilot. You disappeared on me a long time ago. How interesting that you should be waiting for me, after all these years, and that you come with Preventers on your leash.'

Another thump. No progress, then. Toru scans the room again, this time looking for weapons. He may not be able to hold Rzhevsky off long enough for Preventers to break in, but he can spare Winner for a few minutes more. It might be enough. There's plenty of glass, and whatever the contents of that tray might be, but he doesn't see his gun, doesn't see anything useful, or even what Rzhevsky must have used to hit him. Just himself.

'He doesn't hear thoughts,' Toru says. Rzhevsky doesn't look, absorbed in his file. Silence from the house upstairs, which has to mean they're getting in position, they're assessing whatever fortifications Rzhevsky has, and it will take as long as it damn well takes, but they know they've got people at risk, and they'll be here. 'He controls them.'

That gets him eyes. And ears, listening to him now, with sudden keen interest. 'Controls them?' Rzhevsky repeats slowly.

'Yeah.' He gathers his legs under him, testing his ability to stand. He thinks he'll make it. 'He got me almost a month ago. Whatever you gave him-- suppresses abilities? I can almost--'

'Interesting.' Rzhevsky watches him rise without protest, but that package he was holding has scalpels, medical scissors, picks and sharp prods in it, and it's right at Rzhevsky's hand, between Toru and Winner. 'Got you? Snared you?'

'Picked me right off the effing street.' He's up. Not entirely steady, but up is better than down. He balances on the cabinet, focusses on Winner's face. 'I was on a coffee break. And I looked up and saw him and then it was-- was--'

'What.'

Rzhevsky is typing. He's recording it? If these are some kind of weird experiments, these murders, that curiosity just brings it to a new sick level. 'Yeah,' Toru says, and swallows down a grimace, lets it twist his mouth. 'Fucking-- pig was in my head. Made me tag along with him for weeks. Made me do--' He can't think of anything. God. He's a terrible liar. Winner's eyes are squeezed shut, and his breathing is shallow and short. Toru makes it a step, two, with Rzhevsky typing, and two more steps gets him to Winner's chair. 'Pig,' Toru says again, bites it out, and aims a kick at the chair. It skids an inch, and Winner jumps. 'You think it's funny? How's it feel now it's your turn?'

'Enough.' Rzhevsky has a whole file up on his screen, a database, and he's typing in pre-made fields. Not just experiments. A whole project, and one that has a hell of a lot of planning. Toru tries to read it from the corners of his eyes, just picks up on the seal that occupies the upper right-hand corner when Rzhevsky saves the page, and starts to rise. No time to drag it out.

His lunge pins Rzhevsky to the desk, knocks the flat screen back with a clatter and crash. Toru presses with all his weight, but he's slighter than Rzhevsky, and his bound hands are too much impediment. Rzhevsky squirms sideways and is going to overpower him, no question. It's almost more panic than reflex, when he jams his knee between Rzhevsky's, tangles their legs. But it works. Rzhevsky trips over him, falls like a tree going down, and drags Toru with him. They hit the floor hard, with a shower of paper and worse; Toru throws up his arms to shelter his face, as those cutters and knives rain down on them. 

The ringing in his head almost drowns it out. But the shaking of the ground is real, and the powder from the ceiling is from the explosion just feet away from them. Concrete-breaking blast. Toru scrambles and doesn't make it in time, sprawled as he is on his back. Rzhevsky grabs a scalpel off the tile and clambers to his feet. Toru hurls himself up, makes an empty grab on the air where Rzhevsky's ankle was a moment before, Rzhevsky is stabbing down--

There's a second explosion, but Toru barely hears it. Winner's not as out as he was pretending. He's got a solid grip on the big aluminium lamp, and it connects with Rzhevsky's head unerringly. Rzhevsky whips to the right with a spray of red blood. Toru hits him from behind, lower back, and they land on a table. Rzhevsky gets in a good elbow to Toru's ribs, leaving a bad crack of pain, but it doesn't stop the move Toru's already begun. He gets his hands up over Rzhevsky's head, and lets their momentum just keep them falling. They're right back on the floor, but he's got his bound arms wrapped around Rzhevsky's neck, and he uses the rope to choke, straining until the muscles in his shoulders are tearing.

'Toru!' There are hands on his wrists, black-gloved hands pulling at him. 'Toru!' Micheko repeats. 'Let go now!'

The white roar in his head goes to clear. His arms are quivering with release. Rzhevsky is sprawled under him, flat and limp. Micheko moves him like a puppet, both of them, pushing Rzhevsky's head down, tugging Toru off his body. He makes to shift his weight onto a knee, and she steadies him. She's got a belt knife open, sawing at the cord on his wrists.

'He's alive?' he asks. Is that his own voice, hoarse and flat like that?

'He's alive.' Micheko carefully avoids the flesh of his wrists, and severs the rope with a snap. He shakes it off his hands with loathing. 'Are you okay? Toru?'

'Winner.' It's not til he's back on his feet that he registers the sting of a cracked rib, and the ache of a headache, but it's not a bad tally compared to the wreckage he's made of the little lab. All but one of the screens lies broken on the ground, there's electrical cable everywhere, glass shards. Toru sucks in a breath that makes his head swim. 'Winner, where--'

'We need a medic!' someone is shouting. Ricciardi. Toru would know that broken nose anywhere, even in the oval open-faced mask Preventers wear. 'Agent and two civilians injured.'

Winner. Toru crouches awkwardly, eases down onto his flanks. Micheko is directing the flood of people who are suddenly inside, all of them splattered with concrete dust and not a few of them hauling very big guns with them. Ricciari, senior agent on the scene, is arresting Rzhevsky formally, cuffing him and reading an unconscious man his rights, straight from the handbook. Winner is watching all of it from half-closed eyes. He's so pale that the small veins in his face stand out blue under his skin, and his lips are bloodless and bitten.

'Quatre,' Toru says softly. 'There's a medic coming to help. Hold on.'

He's close enough to hear Winner swallow. To see his shallow nod.

'Are you hurt? Show me where.'

Winner's eyes come open wide. Staring at Toru. Around the room, a slow revolution, pausing on each agent, six, seven, eight agents, and back to Toru.

'I can't hear you,' Winner whispers.

'Your ears? The explosion?' No. He knows before Winner even shakes his head. Winner's face is both frantic and tragic, the way he clutches at his head. He lets Winner's fingers scrabble against his own cheek and temple, but catches them when they fall limp.

'Can't hear you,' Winner says. 'It's gone.'

'It won't be forever. You heard what he said. It's just some kind of-- of temporary thing. Suppressing.' No consolation. Winner looks downright scared, and Toru presses his jaws together. 'Come on. You'll be all right. It will wear off.'

'Medic's here.' Micheko approaches them tentatively. The agent behind her, climbing over the men in her way, hurrying to get to them, has a kit with her, and there's shouting from up that little corridor about getting a stretcher down, two stretchers.

'I can walk,' Toru says quickly, and starts to rise, but instead sinks back down beside Winner. 'He'll need it. Check him first. Some kind of injection. Two injections at least.'

'Make a little room for me, Agent Craft.' She gives him a quick once-over, a steel-haired and seasoned woman who dismisses his minor hurts with a flick of her eyes. 'Wait for me to officially check you out of service.'

'Yes ma'am.' There's no room for him, as full as the basesment is now. Rzhevsky is already being loaded on the first stretcher, secured down with tight straps. Toru wipes his face, and finds himself drenched through with sweat. It stings a little on the raw spots where the rope had rubbed his wrists.

'You did well,' Micheko offers quietly. She rights the little rolling stool, and holds it for him to sit. At first he doesn't want to, pride and maybe a little fear he won't make it back up again. But her lips turn up in amusement at him, and he sits stiffly. She rubs his shoulder. 'You'll catch hell about ignoring Commander's order, though. Even if you did single-handedly save the day _and_ net the perp.'

That's almost too much to contemplate. No. It definitely is.

The medic is supporting Winner to his feet. Toru jumps up to his own. 'He's all right?' he demands.

'We'll get some fluids in him and rush blood tests,' the medic answers. 'You'll have an official escort to the hospital, sir, how's that sound.' She spears Toru with an unmoved glare. 'And you-- sit.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He sinks back with Micheko's soft chuckle in his ear. His cheeks burn, and he hides it by wiping at his forehead and neck again. He clears his throat. 'Is it... it's over?'

Micheko nods slowly. 'I think it is.'

'Doesn't...'

'What?'

Her fingers are curling in his collar. He's losing the last of that rush of adrenaline he'd had, wrestling for lives with Rzhevsky. There's an acid taste in his mouth and his stomach is decidedly not happy.

'Doesn't seem over,' he confesses, and has to clear his throat again.

Her thumb traces the tendon of his neck, then pulls hurriedly away. 'It will,' she says briefly, with a small smile that fades too quickly. 'I'll, um. Go make sure Winner's made it up all right. You'll both be fine. Good work, Craft.'

'Thanks,' he says, but she's already gone.

**

 

'What I really want to know is why the hell you just went with him?' Sally demands.

'What else was I supposed to do?' Winner retorts caustically. 'You told me to facilitate him. I facilitated. And he did confess, didn't he.'

Sally is literally holding her breath, like she might explode if she lets it out too soon. Toru finds himself mimicking her, and blows out a lungsful of air in a careful exhale.

'If I did not sufficiently explain that you weren't intended to endanger your own and Agent Craft's life in getting said confession,' Sally says finally, 'then the fault is mine. But I still think I ought to take you over my damn knee, Quatre Winner.'

'Wait a moment,' Toru interrupts, and wishes he hadn't, when they both swivel their heads to glare at him. Winner, at least, softens immediately, and even smiles tiredly for him. Sally does not.

'Um,' Toru says. 'I just-- um-- meant that-- you mean you were playing him the whole time? Dragging it out so he'd explicitly say he killed the other Newtypes?'

'What would be the good of being so close to him without that?' But Winner sighs then, drops his head back to the pillow. He looks washed out, wrung out, really, and if that's the best a world-renowned hospital can do for a sickly man, Toru will have words with the doctors. There have already been five nurses in to draw blood for tests, and Winner's inner elbow is sore and red from being poked so many times. There's a very large cup of juice on his tray, and yet his hand shakes when he lifts it. Toru reaches to steady him, and Winner manages a single gulp before he surrenders.

'You should drink as much as you can,' Sally says then, and her tone is gentler now. 'You want to replenish your electrolytes. Be nice, and I'll see if I can find you a biscuit.'

'Chocolate,' Winner answers solemnly.

She cracks a smile as if unwilling. But she nudges his arm with her knuckles. 'I want it clear. No-one's been able to charm me in years.'

'No doubt.'

Toru chews his lip. 'Pardon,' he begins, and they both come looking at him again, which makes him feel about five years old. He flexes his hands in his lap, and aims for a professional, quiet tone. 'Let's cover the point again, please. You felt him coming? Or heard him?'

'Yes.' Winner sips his juice again. 'I felt him nearing me. It was like... like the flash, but not quite. I felt his-- interest. He was aware of me before he knew precisely who I was, or where. But not surprised. I think it's happened to him before, that Newtypes have found him, instead of the reverse. Called to him, or to his existence, perhaps.'

'Like an attraction.'

'Yes. As when I knew the dead Newtypes were in his flat. I couldn't not think about it. When he was near enough, it was like that.'

'That's why you went to him,' Toru clarifies, thinking he understands. He saw Winner's behaviour in Rzhevsky's flat, of course. 'Not part of the plan. You just had to.'

And there is the question of the glowing. He'd seen it even through the tape. He doesn't bring it up, not with Sally sitting there, but it is very much on his mind. But for once, Winner doesn't pick up on his uncertainty. Winner is looking at him, a crease between his eyes and something unspoken parting his lips, but he shakes his head a moment later.

'What happened then?' Sally asks. She shifts the recorder on the tray to better face Winner. Toru thinks, very privately indeed, that the debrief could have waited until Winner was out of a gurney, at least. But Preventers haven't closed their case, not yet; they need more information now than they did during the search, even. They need enough to answer for twelve deaths, and quite probably more, and for that they'll need every advantage. Even with Rzhevsky in their holding cells, they'll need everything they can bring to keep him there.

'He drugged you?' Sally was asking. 'How? We don't have film of it.'

'He touched my neck.' Winner touches the spot, just above the loose collar of his cotton hospital gown. 'I felt a little prick. It must be a trick he's had time to perfect. Surely other Newtypes didn't know who he was, or what he meant to do. They felt him near, they approached him because they had to, and he made sure they couldn't run when or if they realised what he meant to do to them.'

'And what exactly did it feel like?'

'His drug?' Winner lapses abruptly into silence. Sally looks at Toru, and he only notices when she turns her head away again.

'Quatre,' Toru recalls him. 'Are you all right? Do you need me to call the nurse?'

'No.' Winner waves away his concern. 'No more nurses, please. It was... at first it felt very calming. Like the moments before sleep. It was almost-- pleasant. He had me by the arm and I didn't mind at all where we were going. Then it was very disorientating. But I didn't actually realise I was no longer reading his thoughts until you were there, Toru, at the end. It was all-- quite confusing. Deadening. There could have been a dozen reasons why I couldn't read Rzhevsky, but you I should be able to read.'

'How is-- that-- situation-- now?' Sally asks. 'Can you guess what I'm thinking?'

'It's not guessing,' Winner says tiredly, the tone of a man who's explained that too many times before. 'I'm not a carnival clown. And you're thinking I'm not a very nice man and that you'd rather have a large glass of wine than listen to me complain any more.'

There's a faint tinge of red on Sally's cheeks, then. 'I think you're nice enough when you remember to try,' she answers blandly enough. 'But I take it that the effect is wearing off.'

'Yes. It seems to be very short-lived, whatever it is.' Winner looks between them, settles on Sally. 'Can you identify it? Whatever compound he was using?'

'From what the doctors here are saying, it's not turning up on any of the toxin screens they've run on your blood, and they've looked for some very exotic things in the last several hours.'

'Given how ill it made you, I wouldn't think you'd want to use it again,' Toru says.

Sally raises her eyebrows. 'Use it again? Even if he had access, it's far too dangerous. We have no way of knowing what it is.'

Winner licks his lips. 'Of course,' he echoes, but there's a hollow quality to his voice. He clears it with an exhale, and drinks his juice very concentratedly.

Sally turns off the recorder then. 'I think that's enough for now,' she says, tucking it away in her coat. 'We have your button camera, which recorded quite a lot, all things considered, and between your testimony and Toru's, I think we're in good shape. We'll spend hours at it yet with Rzhevsky, but that's our business.'

'I actually had an idea about that.' Toru waits for Sally's nod, generously given, now that she's looking at Winner like a civie again, not a 'consultant'. 'If you are up to it, Mr Winner, and if your abilities are restored, I think it might be a good idea to have you observe the interrogation.'

'Observe?' Sally repeats pointedly.

'Yes, ma'am. Quatre-- Mr Winner-- could tell us whether Rzhevsky is being truthful. Or hiding something. Or even what he's hiding, if we got him to think about it specifically enough, isn't that right, sir?'

Both his elders are blinking at that one. 'I should think,' Winner begins, and trails off.

Sally's the one he's really watching. She purses her lips, thinking it through, her eyes locked on his as she considers his proposal.

'We are still under contract with Mr Winner,' Toru reminds her. 'And doesn't it make sense? If we have a Newtype on our side of the table, as you say, Commander, that's an advantage to us.'

She holds up a hand. 'Never get quite that obvious when you're manipulating your command, Toru. I take the point. Quatre, if you're willing, then I agree with Agent Craft. It sounds worth a try.'

'We'll only be asking him about his crimes,' Toru adds. 'Not his abilities. Not anything about Newtypes.'

'Where reasonable,' Sally qualifies meaningfully. 'It's inescapable that this is all mixed up in the Newtype issue. But if you're still willing, we could use your help.'

Toru thinks he knows Winner well enough now that he's not surprised when Winner capitulates with a nod. And thinks he knows Winner well enough to know that it comes with cost. He stays seated when Sally picks up her coat to go, and waits for the door to shut after her. Winner slumps down in his bed, crams a pillow deeper beneath his head. Toru does rise, then, to dim the lights. The tense lines at Winner's eyes ease, just a bit.

'Are you well?' Winner asks him then. 'You're looking a bit rough on the edges.'

'No concussion. And the rib is just bruised, not cracked.'

'Your first battle wounds,' Winner says, lightly and not, somehow. Toru nods uneasily.

'You could have killed him,' Winner murmurs then. 'Thank you. For not doing it.'

'I don't know if I did or didn't make that choice.' He tries to hold Winner's gaze, but finds himself staring at his hands instead. 'I think I wanted to kill him. He was going to murder you, and I would have been next. If Micheko-- Agent Walker-- hadn't come just then, I think I would have killed him.'

'But you didn't.'

'And it's that simple?'

'No. But it's a line that you could have crossed easily. One day you will, in this work. Today, you didn't. Even if that's not much, it's something.'

'Are you mentoring me, sir?'

Winner begins to laugh. It's maybe the most genuine thing Toru has seen him do, and it makes him grin, himself.

'I think you can do better,' Winner smiles. 'But my gratitude is real. And I'm also grateful that you didn't let him kill me. That would have been a bit of a dampener on my week.'

'A bit.' He checks over his shoulder, but the door is firmly shut, and there's no-one standing in immediate view outside it. Toru digs in his pocket, and takes Winner's hand. He presses a small glass vial into it.

'What's this?' Winner lifts it to the lamplight. 'Toru?'

'Rzhevsky had dozens,' Toru tells him, very quietly now. 'They'll go into Evidence and they won't ever be released, at least not to a civilian. But... I was thinking... that you're a wealthy man.'

Winner's eyes shoot up to his.

'And maybe you can afford to hire someone,' Toru says. 'Someone who can figure out what it is, and how to make it safe.'

Winner's hand clenches in a tight fist around the vial. He breathes like a man who can't remember how, bites his lower lip until it emerges red. 'You can't give me this,' he whispers with difficulty. 'It's too much trouble for you, if anyone ever finds out.'

'Then don't tell them.'

Winner takes his hand, this time. His grip is hard, but Toru squeezes back.

 

**

 

Toru has yet to see a day of good weather in London, but this morning is not half bad.

There's actual sun, though it only reaches the street as a pale glimmer. The snow has stopped, and mostly melted, so there's only dingy slush on kerbs. It's still wintery cold, but not the shudderingly damp cold of the last few days.

Or maybe a good breakfast just puts him in a better mood. The buffet at the hospital is really very nice. Toru plates himself three eggs, three-- well, five-- rashers of thick bacon, slops a big spoonful of fibre-rich beans onto his toast, and helps himself to fried sausages and tomatoes as well. And adds a bowl of wheat cereal and tall tumbler of fresh orange juice to his tray. And a grapefruit and a banana and whatever black pudding is.

Micheko strolls in as he's seating himself. He waves to catch her attention, and wipes his mouth hurriedly on his napkin. She gets a crooked grin when she sees his spread. 'Guess you're back to normal,' she greets him.

'Starved,' he confesses. 'Haven't eaten much the past few days.'

'You'll get over that. A few more missions under your belt and you'll learn that not eating doesn't help you much in the long run.' She flips her hair back over her shoulder, and Toru stoically does not watch it settle in a fine black cloud against her neck. Much. 'How's Winner?'

'They're letting him out in about an hour. They only wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but it looks like whatever Rzhevsky gave him burned through and through.' He tries to demonstrate his very nice table manners, but hunger wins, and he opts for just stuffing it in while he hides his mouth with his hand. 'How're you?'

'Slept like a baby. This is the best part. We had a big win and we haven't gotten to the paperwork yet.' She laughs. 'Not that I'll have much to add. Fill out my forms. Someone else will have the big report.'

'To the joy of being junior.' He mimes clinking glasses with her. 'I'm supposed to bring Winner up town to the Field Office. You with us?'

'Thought I'd offer to drive. In case you were still feeling it from yesterday.'

'Headache,' he admits. 'But it's not bad.'

'I take it not.' Micheko plants her chin on her hand, watching him eat. She says, 'Has anyone congratulated you, yet? The team?'

'Oh-- you know, the usual.'

'So no,' she translates. 'They'll get over it. You did a really good job, Toru. You proved you can hack it. They're just jealous.'

Toru sops his runny egg yolk with an edge of his toast. 'You think it's really okay? I'm oka-- that I-- did okay?'

'Are you questioning it, or do you really think anyone else is?'

Toru makes a face at that, and forks his egg past his teeth. 'Commander's a close family friend. Everyone was already crying nepotism. And I disobeyed an order and got a slap on the wrist for it. And I brought Winner in, and that hasn't been especially popular.'

'I heard you're scrubbing latrines for three weeks when we get back to HQ.'

'Four.' He uses his spoon to make twin piles out of his beans, and squishes them down against the plate. 'And then two weeks re-painting the parking lot.'

'That's no slap on the wrist, my friend. That's pretty humiliating.'

He looks up hopefully. 'You really think so?'

She laughs at him. 'I really think so,' she teases. 'Trust me, no-one thinks Commander's going too lightly.' She steals his banana and peels it. 'Don't choke eating that too fast. I have a hunch Winner's going to be as ready to leave as you are.'

That turns out to be an understatement. Winner is up and dressed, and waiting for them at the front desk. Well, around the corner from the front desk. He has his iPod again, headphones in, but he brightens visibly on seeing them. 'Ah,' he welcomes them. 'My rescuers. Agent Walker, lovely as always, I hope you don't mind my saying.'

'Hey,' Toru objects. 'The lady's in uniform, Mr Winner.'

'My apologies. You look lovely too, Agent Craft.'

Micheko laughs. 'You're feeling better, Mr Winner?'

'I have supplied samples of every possible nature and all tests are negative. I had to shower in front of a nurse who was most decidedly not objective in her observations. And I had a saline bag for breakfast. I would be ready to leave this place even if it were the Garden of Eden.'

'Fair enough,' Micheko nods. 'Although, having seen you in your skivvies, sir, I'm sure she wasn't thinking anything a red-blooded woman wouldn't.'

'Why, you.'

'If you two are done flirting,' Toru interrupts pointedly, 'let's sign the paperwork and get moving.'

'Jealous,' Micheko tells Winner sagely.

They've finished with their little ops centre, and the London Field Office is almost as massive as Preventers Headquarters in Brussels. It's a sleek new building, all wide glass halls and impressive city vistas. Toru finds himself walking a little straighter, and Micheko's face is a mould of professionalism, nodding solemnly to agents who stride briskly past their threesome. Winner is wearing his sunglasses, even inside, and the hunch of his shoulders is familiar. Rzhevsky's drugs really have worn off. Toru feels a little sorry for him, and tries not to, when Winner's head turns toward him.

Their exit on the fourteenth storey is an oasis of quiet; every room here is Secret clearance at least, and there's fewer people. They stop at the front desk to sign in, and Winner is given a visitor's badge, and Toru has a low-toned argument with the desk guard about whether Winner's iPod is authorised. He's in the process of threatening to fetch Commander Sally Po, yes, _that_ Sally Po, the war hero and unacknowledged frontrunner for next Director, who will certainly be disappointed to see that her memo didn't make it to those who needed to see it and who definitely does not like to waste her time repeating herself-- when Winner suddenly goes stiff as a board.

'What?' Toru demands, grabbing him by the elbow. 'Are you all right? Micheko, get him a chair--'

'He's here,' Winner whispers.

'Who's here? What-- Mister, we're going in, and we're taking the iPod. Quatre?'

Winner's almost bouncing on the balls of his feet as Micheko swipes her badge for access past the big glass doors. He hurries in before Toru, walking quickly and with unerring direction for the offices past the conference rooms. Micheko shrugs at Toru, and he shrugs back. 'I guess we keep up with him,' he says.

'Guess so.'

They catch up when Winner finally meets a door he hasn't got access to, and Toru reaches past him to swipe his badge. As soon as the light turns green, Winner yanks the door open and bounds through. And then just as abruptly stops dead. Toru almost hits him, and veers sharp to the side.

Sally is waiting for them, standing across the computer banks by the large screen displaying case information from a dozen different operations. There's a small group of people surrounding her, some in uniform and some in suits, and her expression is polite and grave. Toru tugs Winner's arm, and puts a hand on his shoulder then to push him. 'Come on,' he prods.

Winner sucks in a deep breath. He comes to life, but walks like he's forgotten how to do it. Toru exchanges looks with Micheko. She's as confused as he is.

'Agents,' Sally says. 'And Mr Winner. Good morning. You have a visitor.'

Winner is wringing his hands. 'Trowa,' he says, small-voiced, airless.

Trowa. Trowa Barton? Toru is at attention now. It must be the tall man who's at Sally's side. The one who has a subtle ring of space around him, every agent giving room to the one radiating fury.

Barton has clenched fists. They stay at his side, go into crossed arms. He says, 'Where the fuck have you been.'

Micheko doesn't like that tone; she moves to Winner's back. Barton flicks his eyes up to her, dismisses her just as quickly. Toru doesn't like that, and moves in next to her.

'Stop it,' Winner says absently. 'You're not mad at them. You're mad at me.'

'You're damn right I'm mad at you.' Barton locks glares with Winner. 'You missed our Tuesday call. And the clinic didn't know where you were. They said Preventers had taken you away.'

'I'm sorry.'

'What was I supposed to think!'

'I'm sorry. I didn't know how long it would take.' Winner shuffles on his feet like a guilty schoolboy. 'You came to find me,' he says, and his voice ticks up at the end, something almost hopeful in it. Barton swallows hard.

'Of course I did,' he says softly, resigned.

Sally steps into the silence that falls after that. 'Colonel Amblyne has offered use of his office while we wrap up our case,' she informs them. 'Why don't we take him up on that offer. Mr Barton, I'm afraid you're not authorised to join us.'

'I can escort him out,' Toru offers.

'Thank you, Agent Craft. Find us when you're done.'

'I—' Winner says. 'I would-- I—'

'There's a coat room off the lobby, Mr Winner, that should be private.'

Frigid dead air follows them all the way back to that coat room. Barton stalks along like a man on the verge of explosion, and Winner seems utterly chastened, following him like a puppy. Micheko and Toru pull up the rear; Toru gets the door, and together they stand against it.

Barton confronts them with a rude stare. 'Are you his body guard or are you here to report on whatever we say?'

Toru responds for them both. 'At the moment, I'm a friend.'

Winner gives him a swift uneasy smile. 'They're all right. Trowa--'

'No.' Barton holds up a hand. 'I'm talking. Do you know what I thought when they told me Preventers had you?'

Winner's shoulders slump. 'How could you think anything else. I'm sorry. I should have rung you first.'

'This is almost as bad. They have you doing case work for them? We swore we'd never let them use you like this. Do you know what it does to him?' Barton demands of Toru. 'You see what he's like? Do you know how bad he gets around this many people? Did he tell you that on his eighteenth birthday I found him trying to pound the voices out of his head against the bathroom wall?'

'Trowa.' Winner steps in and grips Barton by the arm. 'I've done this voluntarily. There were good reasons. I can't tell you about the case, but you know there's very few good reasons. You can guess why I felt I had to come.'

Toru almost speaks up, to remind Winner about his non-disclosure agreement, but he doesn't have to. The look of grim understanding on Barton's face says it all. 'That explains you being stupid,' Barton retorts, 'not them approaching you.' But Barton is losing his fight. It's leaking out of him, as he stares down at Winner. 'It took me two days to get them to acknowledge where you were. You at least can acknowledge you know why I worried.'

'Of course I do. I'm truly sorry for it.'

That seems to be it. Barton ducks his head away, stares at the coats instead. Winner holds his arm a minute longer, and releases him slowly. All the morning's joking relief is gone, now, and it's just a weariness in its place, old and lonely burdens, the way he was when Toru first met him in St John's. Toru understands that a little more, now, he thinks, looking at the two of them.

Winner breaks the quiet. He says, with obviously forced lightness, 'How's Ewin.'

Barton inhales shortly. 'He's fine. He has a show in Paris.'

'You should be there.'

'He knows why I'm not.'

Winner's chin tucks down to his chest, and he puts his hands in his pockets, then. 'You should be there,' he says again, toneless now.

'You know why I'm not,' Barton answers him. And then that really is the end.

Barton squares his jaw, buttons his coat over his scarf. 'Can I walk out of here on my own, or do you escort me?' he asks Toru.

'I can escort you, sir.' Micheko opens the door. 'Whenever you're ready.'

'Can someone in there call me a cab. I have to go book a flight. I can wait at Heathrow.'

'Of course.'

Their parade back to the front lobby goes along subdued lines. Barton signs out at the desk, gets his phone back from the lockbox. Toru uses the unclassified phone to call a local taxi company. 'Do you need directions back outside?' he asks Barton.

'Not from Preventers, I don't.'

He gives that one up with more grace than usual. Maybe Winner is desensitising him to those kinds of insults.

'Christ, it's sad,' Micheko whispers to him.

'What's sad?'

'They're in love, and they can't be together.'

'What?' He turns to stare at her. 'What are you talking about?'

'Oh, honestly, Toru, you didn't realise that?'

'Them?' He looks again, and all he sees are two men standing ten feet away from each other trying not to make eye contact. 'That's what love looks like?'

'Long-lost love. Forbidden love. It's like a romance novel.'

'You need better reading material,' Toru mutters. Then, 'He did tell me that someone drove him to St John's. I think it might have been Barton.'

'And they've been separated ever since.' She really does seem sad about it. Toru shakes his head.

The phone rings, and Toru answers it. 'It's your cab,' he reports. 'Preventers can validate the trip for you.'

'No thanks.' Barton pulls on his gloves. He hesitates, but Winner looks miserable, and after a moment Barton looks anywhere else. 'Tuesday,' he says. 'If you don't call me, I'm done, Quat. I mean it.'

'I know you do,' Winner answers quietly. 'I really am sorry.'

'Don't be sorry. Just be okay.'

The door swings shut slowly after Barton, clicks to lock. They watch through the glass as he walks to the lift, punches hard at the call button. He leans on the wall like it's too much effort to hold himself up, and he stares at the ceiling tiles.

'We should find Commander,' Toru says. 'Quatre.'

Winner sucks in his cheeks, sighs out. 'Yes. I...' The lift is arriving. Barton straightens, moves into position.

Winner breaks his stance so suddenly Toru is left blinking. Winner rebounds through the glass doors, sprints the forty feet down the hall to the lifts. Micheko is right on his heels. Toru gives himself a shake and follows.

'Trowa,' Winner is saying, grabbing him back from the lift as it closes. 'Trowa, don't-- don't go. You don't have to go.'

Barton negates it with a stiff incline of his head. 'We've had this argument a million times.'

'I'm not arguing. I'm-- asking. Begging, really. You don't have to go. We can-- we should-- Trowa, look, I'm not saying it's easy, but I'm here. I've been in London for five days, and I'm not stark raving mad yet. Maybe the years have made it easier, or I know how to deal with it now, or... I don't know. But I know that I can try and I can survive it. Isn't that license enough for us to say we can talk about it again?'

Even Toru hears the longing in that. Embarrassed, a little, he tries to look like he's not listening. Micheko is openly hanging on each word, though. Toru kicks at her shoe, and she flaps a hand at him.

'You were the one who made me leave,' Barton returns. 'And it took me years to admit you were right. I have a life. I have the life you said I should go get.'

'I know. I don't know what happens to it. I--' They're acquiring an audience, agents passing in the hall who notice the noise. Toru tries to shoo them along without looking like he's doing it, but Winner sees, or picks up, in the way he does, on what Toru is trying not to think about, and slowly turns cooked-lobster red. 'I'm sorry,' he says.

'Quat.' Barton's shoulders slump. 'Let's talk about it on Tuesday. We're both-- let's just give it space before we jump into something.'

'Of course. Yes.'

Barton's palm cups Winner's jaw. It lingers there, like he can't tear himself away. But he does, when the lift doors open again to eject a crowd of agents. He boards without looking back. He stands eyes-down until the doors close him in, and the lift departs.

Micheko plucks Winner's sleeve. 'Why don't we see if we can find some tea before we go in,' she says.

Winner gathers himself for a nod. 'Thank you. Please.'

Toru pulls in a deep breath. 'Good idea. Okay.'


	5. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's like puzzle pieces falling into place. Toru sees where it's going. One of the earliest of the experiments. And responsible for wiping out the rest when the programme failed. There might not be-- God. There might not be any left on Earth but the two sitting in that room together._

'Trouble?' Sally asks him, sotto voce so Winner won't hear her.

Toru only shrugs. 'I don't think so, Commander.'

'They were so much easier to deal with when they were little boys,' she mutters. Toru decides the wisest thing to do is let that one pass.

Ricciardi and his partner Dawes are the senior agents who've been assigned wrap-up, and they're laying out evidence on the big white boards in the Colonel's office. Toru excuses himself to look over the photographs of Rzhevsky's lab. For all that he'd spent hours poring over the place only last night, it feels much different to see it in print. It's really a small room, though it had felt large enough when he and Rzhevsky had been pounding their way across it. All the smashed lab equipment is catalogued, little number placards photographed by any shard big enough for identification. The computers have already been packed up and are with Forensics; Toru had managed to avoid damaging any of the drives, though he'd crunched almost all of the screens. There's the big chair where Rzhevsky had laid Winner out, presumably to carve him up.

'Thoughts?'

It's Dawes. They don't know each other well, but the older man seems open enough to his input. Toru nods to the pic he's examining, clears his throat.

'I'm thinking if he's got all that equipment ready, why did we only find three heads,' he answers.

'I've been wondering that myself.' Dawes hands him a case file, and Toru flips it open. 'The Geek Squad's been peeling open that database you reported he was compiling. I asked them to search on the three heads idea, but they haven't found anything specific yet. From here, it looks like a deviation of his MO. If he were any other serial murderer--'

'He wouldn't deviate without a significant reason.'

'But any other serial murderer wouldn't be collecting all this information on his vics, either. I've seen some weird things in my time, but even by the standards of a high-functioning, intelligent serial, this is unusual.'

'He seemed especially interested in what Winner could do. What his Newtype abilities are.'

'And we've got absolute confirmation that he only ever targeted Newtypes?'

'Not absolute, at least not that I've heard. He hasn't copped to it yet?'

'He hasn't copped to anything.' Ricciardi joins them then. 'We didn't get squat last night. We're sweating him out now. Lots of water and coffee but no toilet breaks. Lights on all night. Interruptions whenever he starts to go to sleep.'

Toru looks up at that picture of the chair. 'I heard that only the guilty ones sleep.'

Dawes snorts. 'That's an urban myth, kid. Anyone sleeps when they're tired enough, and nothing's quite as exhausting as getting caught in the act.'

'Oh.' Toru scans the pages of the case file. All of their leads, and a few newer pages at the beginning, detailing their contract with Winner. Already a full inventory of the contents of Rzhevsky's flat, and of his lab. 'He could run all kinds of tests with this equipment,' Toru notes. 'Blood tests, even some scans. What was he looking for?'

'My opinion?' Dawes says. 'He was trying to figure out this Newtype thing. Like those heads, okay. We found molars missing from each.'

'But he didn't mutilate all the bodies.'

'Maybe not all of them were as special as the ones he did.'

'Special?' Ricciardi repeats sceptically.

'There may be something to that,' Toru says slowly. 'He was interested in Winner for being Quatre Winner, but he seemed like he had a real routine. Basic questions about them, who they are, where they've been, maybe, and he wanted to know what Winner could do, but when I lied and said Winner could control thoughts, that's when he really piqued.'

'Do we know it's a lie?' Ricciardi asks.

Toru rolls his eyes before he thinks better of it. 'Of course it's a lie.'

'Oh, really, well then.'

'Even if it's not, we're not worried about Winner,' Dawes says peaceably. 'So it was the uniqueness of that idea that got Rzhevsky's attention.'

'He wasn't rushing himself because he assumed his lab was fortified enough to give him the time to take care of Winner one way or another. But he delayed long enough on the question of Winner's abilities that you all had time to break in.'

'Only because we had charges ready to go. If we hadn't been able to blow that seal, we wouldn't have made it through without finding a jackhammer and a few spare hours. So if the point of this perv's murder spree is trying to figure out how the Newtypes tick, then a catch like a Newtype who can control thoughts would account for him slipping up.'

'So answer for this,' Ricciardi interrupts. 'You're Rzhevsky. You have a whole little basement fortress dedicated to your sick experiments. Why do you take three heads home and build a secret room to keep them? That's a whole new level of psychotic. It doesn't mesh with Mr Science.'

Toru is chewing the inside of his cheek, wondering how much he ought to say aloud. But Sally heard it from Winner already, and it might give them an edge interrogating Rhzevsky, if they can understand this part of it. Reluctantly, he says, 'When Winner got near those heads, it totally incapacitated him. Last night he said it felt the same way when he got near Rzhevsky. Maybe we've got to allow for some nuance here. If we accept that some Newtypes are more special, then maybe what we really mean is more powerful. And that maybe the-- attraction between powerful Newtypes is going to be more-- well, powerful. Maybe Rzhevsky couldn't bring himself to toss out the bodies of those Newtypes the way he did all the others. He kept those heads because he had to.'

'So the head is the important part of a Newtype?' Ricciardi asks.

'I don't know. Maybe Rzhevsky thought it was, anyway.'

'I don't even want to think about asking him that,' Dawes says flatly. 'Any jury in the world who hears that is going to clear him on insanity.'

'From where I'm standing, this entire case is insanity,' Ricciardi shrugs. 'And to hell with the Newtypes.'

'It's not their fault,' Toru says defencively. 'None of them asked to be targeted by a murderer. Or to picked apart for their blood or teeth.'

'Yeah, it's all very sad. But did you ever stop to wonder if the real problem is that there's so many of them to begin with?'

'Interesting thesis, Agent.' Each of them turn quickly to face Sally, who's now standing at their backs with her hands on her hips and no amusement whatsoever in her expression. 'Maybe you can explain the relevance to me.'

Ricciardi is tight-lipped. 'No, ma'am.'

'No, there's no relevance?' she asks him sweetly. 'Then it seems to me you should be spending your energy on the things that _are_ relevant.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'So glad we're in agreement.' Sally's eyes flick to Toru. 'Get Winner prepped. I want to know if he needs to see Rhzevsky to read his thoughts, or if it's enough to sit in a room next to him. If we can do another room, then we can video Winner, too. It might be helpful to correlate it all later.'

'I'll ask, Commander.' He hands the case file back to Dawes, and ducks away from his fellow agents.

'Video me?' Winner says distastefully, when Toru tells him Sally's idea. 'I don't think so.'

'I thought we might be past the idea that Preventers are trying to unearth all your secrets to use them against you.' He brought a plate of food from the break room, and he puts it in Winner's unwilling hands. 'Eat. You look like you're going to melt into the floor.'

Winner sighs. He picks a single grape from the plate and chews obediently. 'Tell me it's standard and I might even believe you.'

'There's nothing standard about Newtypes, sir.'

'I thought you were only calling me that in front of people.'

'Quatre' had been a little easier before that scene out by the lifts. Toru tries to wipe that thought out of existence before Winner can catch a whiff of it. 'It's not a bad idea, when you think about it. Comparing his expressions to yours. Being able to tell what he was thinking and when.'

'Do I show it so much on my face, then?'

'Sometimes,' Toru admits. 'I can tell when you're reading me.'

Winner blinks at him over another grape. 'You can? I didn't know that.'

'You get a certain look. Like you're trying to read a sign that's far away. Kind of squinty.'

Winner immediately smooths his face. 'I do not squint.'

'Mmhm,' Toru says.

Winner pops his grape and turns his back on Toru rather obviously to look out over the office floor below their window. 'Well, if you think it's best, I suppose it's fine, but honestly I would rather be able to see him. There's going to be other people in the room all thinking very hard about tactics and it will be harder to filter that if I can't see Rzhevsky directly.'

'The visual really helps?'

'It's just like being at a party where everyone's talking loudly. I can read him better if I'm watching him think.'

'I'll tell Commander.'

'Toru...'

'Yes?' He comes back to Winner's side. He works in an office like that, or will, now that he's a regular agent. Brussels has more natural light to it, a fact for which Toru is newly grateful. But it's all phone lines and internet research and following leads from the confines of a desk, and then a very little running around and chasing perps. From this angle, it looks like a strange life. But whenever he thinks of doing anything else, he can't imagine it.

'Not even now that you know there's no clock counting down your exposure as a mad Newtype?' Winner asks him softly.

He doesn't protest that invasion, except to check that no-one else is near enough to hear it. They're quite alone, for the moment. 'The profile says most... hit that point in late teens. You said it, too.'

'You're eighteen. And I thought I'd already assured you that you're safe from it. If nothing else, Rzhevsky was utterly uninterested in you, and you know he would have sensed it if you were a Newtype.'

That's true. He hadn't thought of that. But while they stand there, just the two of them, he says quietly, 'I saw you glow. Again.'

Winner blows out a slow breath. 'When was this, now?'

'When Rzhevsky was approaching you. When you got up to go to him. It-- it has to be the same moment that the Newtype flash was happening. There was haze. The haze showed up on our video camera, like a fog, but that wasn't what it looked like to me. To me, it was a glow.'

'I don't know what to tell you,' Winner says, and Toru takes some small, somewhat bitter comfort in the idea that even Winner can be stumped sometimes. 'I've never heard about glowing before. It's possible you've got some kind of sensitivity. Extra-sensory ability.'

'But how could I have that if I wasn't ever, well-- made to have it, like you were?'

'All manner of people have these sorts of minor conditions. People who know when the phone will ring or who have little dreams about things that will happen tomorrow.'

'And that's all well and good, but you just said you've never heard of someone seeing Newtypes glow. This is a pretty-- pretty specific thing about Newtypes.'

After a minute, Winner just shakes his head. 'Watch today,' he says then. 'See if it happens again. If it does, we'll figure out what to do.'

He has to be content with that. Sally is beckoning him. 'I'll go tell Commander about the viewing.'

'Toru-- I just-- wanted to apologise. If I made you uncomfortable, this morning. When my... friend was here.'

'Oh, um. No. Not at all.'

Winner has to be able to tell he's lying. But Winner just stares harder out at the offices, his mouth turned down and his fingers picking listlessly at his food.

'Try to eat while you can,' Toru tells him, and leaves him quietly.

The interrogation room where they're holding Rzhevsky looks like the pictures in Preventers' manuals. It's just big enough for a squat square table, and the three chairs around it. No windows, no posters or other decoration to look at, just bare white walls. Rzhevsky is at his ease on his side of the table, sitting with his eyes closed, his head carelessly propped on his wrist. He never looks at the large mirrored wall, though he has to know there's a crowd on the other side of it.

Quite a crowd. Sally, of course, and also Toru, who would normally never be allowed to witness this part of a high-profile case. Micheko is long gone, back to work out in the offices below. Dawes and Ricciardi will be conducting the interview, and both are tense now, gearing up for it. Toru watches covertly. He sat through the same classes they did, but he's never seen a live interrogation. The partners have high confession rates, and years of experience at it. Dawes is cracking his knuckles rhythmically, and Ricciardi is chewing gum with a kind of vicious intensity. Colonel Amblyne, a short muscular man with dusky skin and a wicked glint in his eye, is talking on his phone to someone else, but his Lieutenant Colonel is watching closely as the tech prepares the video and audio feed for their recording. Winner has found a wall to lean against, and he has his iPod on, blasting loud enough to drown out a parade. The others are pretending to ignore him, but they sneak looks at him, every few minutes.

'We're ready,' Sally announces finally. 'Dawes, Ricciardi, standard Reid technique to start. Mr Winner will let us know if we need to adjust our focus. Quatre, I want to remind you that your microphone speaks directly to our agents inside. You can speak to them whenever you need to, but the less chatter they have from us, the easier it will be for them.' She waits for nods from all three men, and opens the door. 'We're go.'

There's no real reason for Toru to be front and centre, but he wants to be close enough to Winner to observe for that glow. Well, and he wants to see Rzhevsky's face for himself, he can admit to that. He manages to sidle up to the spot Winner had against the wall, back at an angle to his shoulder where Winner stands at the window now. Sally and Amblyne get prime space right at the mirror, and there's enough room for the Lieutenant as well, on Sally's far side. The tech will have to be content with monitoring the live feed.

In the next room, the door opens on Dawes, leading the way. Ricciardi follows, flipping it casually closed, and he tosses the case file to the table, sprawls into a chair. Bad cop, Toru thinks, smiling to himself. Or at least Impatient Cop. Dawes has water bottles, and he places those on the table, too, offering one to Rzhevsky. When Rzhevsky doesn't move, doesn't so much as open his eyes, Dawes shrugs and seats himself as well.

_'Where you want to start?'_ he asks his partner.

Ricciardi sighs shortly. _'You've been charged,'_ he tells Rzhevsky, almost bored. _'Twelve counts murder, two counts assault with intent to kill, one count general douche-baggery.'_

_'I imagine we'll be adding to that number,'_ Dawes says. _'Twelve just doesn't strike me as a high enough number. We've got an office pool on it. I have fifty that you've really murdered twenty-five. You want to tell me if I'm hot or cold?'_

Rzhevsky breaks a smile. _'Amusing,'_ he comments. _'I didn't know there was a comedy show.'_

Ricciardi rolls his eyes. He shoves the case file at Dawes. _'Move on.'_

Not Bad Cop, Toru realises. Building rapport by pretending to find the whole case beneath him, as Rzhevsky does. Dawes will be the one who follows the rules, the one who's got to ask the questions, and Ricciardi will undermine him to make an ally out of Rzhevsky.

Dawes opens the file and removes the prints of all the victims. He lays them out in a row, one after the other. _'Two Joe Bloggs, but we've identified all the women. Youngest Georgie Fisher, age twenty-two, oldest Paulina Bardi, age forty-one. Do you recognise all of them?'_

Rzhevsky at last opens his eyes, only to sit back against the rail of his chair and stare at the ceiling. _'Will you spare me this waste of time if I confess to everything? It's far more than twenty-five dead, Agents. And I don't want to be all day at this.'_

There's a long pause. Sally looks at Winner, as Toru is doing. Winner bites his lip. 'He's telling the truth,' he says. 'He's willing to tell you everything.'

Dawes answers first. _'All right,'_ he says. _'However you want to play. You want paper and pen? A keyboard?'_

_'No.'_ Rzhevsky turns his head toward the mirror for the first time. _'He's there. The Newtype.'_

Toru is close enough to feel Winner inhale.

_'The Newtype?'_ Ricciardi repeats slowly. _'Which Newtype.'_

_'I detest pretence,'_ Rzhevsky tells him flatly. _'I'll speak to the Newtype. Bring him in here and you'll have your confession.'_

'No,' Sally says. 'Keep him talking.'

_'We can negotiate on that point,'_ Dawes offers. He puts his elbows on the table and points to the first picture. _'How about a gesture of good faith. Prove to me you're really ready to talk. Tell me about Georgie Fisher.'_

Rzhevsky is still looking at the mirror. _'I want the Newtype. Quatre Winner.'_

_'When you're proved you're ready to talk.'_

Amblyne covers his microphone. 'What's this about? Mr Winner?'

Winner unclips his microphone from his tie. 'He's prepared to hold out. I don't know why he wants to talk to me. Only-- he's thinking--'

'What?' Sally presses him. 'Quatre, you're only here as long as this is useful.'

'Brother,' Winner says flatly. 'He's thinking about brotherhood.'

'Brotherhood?' Amblyne repeats incredulously. 'Didn't he try to murder you yesterday?'

_'I feel him there.'_ Rzhevsky stands and approaches the mirror. Dawes comes to his feet, but Rzhevsky's hands are out to his sides, wide and harmless. _'I've promised your information. Humour me.'_

Rzhevsky is standing almost exactly opposite Winner. Toru straightens at Winner's back. It's there. The shimmer. Faint, in this bright room, but it's on both of them. He touches Winner's elbow for his attention, but Winner never reacts to him. He's staring right back at Rzhevsky, like he couldn't look away if he wanted to.

Sally interrupts with a sudden shrug. 'What the hell,' she says. 'It's no stranger than the rest of this has been. Dawes, he's hostile to you; I want you out of the room. Switch with Winner. For now. Let's see if we can shake up the dynamic.' She turns off her mike, and takes Winner by the shoulder. 'Have you ever participated in anything like this before?'

'Not from this side,' Winner answers drily. He drags his eyes away from the man on the other side of the mirror, physically turns his back. Toru tries to catch his gaze, but Winner avoids him.

Sally smiles at that one. 'Don't worry about asking questions. Ricciardi will do that. Just concentrate on what you were already going to do-- verifying what he says. Are you all right with that?'

'I suppose so.' Winner gives over his microphone to the tech, and gets an earpiece instead. 'Is it really that many dead?'

'You'll be the one to tell us.' She gives his shoulder a squeeze. 'Remember that this is what will put him away where he can't hurt anyone else. That's our sole goal today.'

It only takes a minute to redistribute personnel. Dawes joins them, and then Winner is entering the interrogation in his place. He stands at the open door for a minute with what looks to Toru like hope for a Hail Mary. But when he shuts it behind him, he does it firmly enough, and he sits in Dawes' chair, his hands folded in his lap.

Rzhevsky stands over him for a long minute in silence. This time, Winner refuses to look at him. At last, Rzhevsky eases down in his chair. His fingers travel a slow path over the photographs of the dead, never settling. Then he leans back, crosses his arms loosely over his chest.

Ricciardi breaks the silence. _'You want to free-form this or you want me to ask you questions?'_

_'I want the Newtype to speak first.'_ Rzhevsky looks at Winner with open interest. _'Do you really control thoughts?'_

Winner brings up his eyes, snared. _'No,'_ he says.

_'Pity. That would have been a formidable talent.'_

Toru has lost his place at the window. He shifts sideways until he can see between Amblyne and his Lieutenant. The glow is still there. If anything it looks stronger.

Ricciardi breaks in again. _'How many have you killed, then? Total number.'_

_'We'll get to that. I want the Newtype to ask me.'_

_'It's enough I'm here,'_ Winner replies remotely. _'I have nothing to say to you.'_

_'That is hardly true.'_

_'Total number,'_ Ricciardi repeats. He leans forward, to distract Rzhevsky, to put himself physically in front of Winner. _'Give me the number.'_

_'When the Newtype asks me himself.'_

_'Forty-six.'_ Winner passes a hand over his eyes. _'It's forty-six. God.'_ His fingers hover at his mouth, like he might be ill. 

'Forty-six,' Sally says numbly. 'How in hell can it be that many? Is it-- is it possible for him to lie to Quatre? I mean-- if he's insane, if he's really insane, will Quatre know the difference between the truth and a delusion?'

Toru has no answer for that.

Ricciardi even seems thrown by that. He taps one of the pictures, slides it slowly back into place. _'Forty-six is quite the career. Why don't you tell us about it.'_

_'Happily,'_ Rzhevsky returns. _'When the Newtype_ asks _me.'_

Sally activates her microphone. 'Quatre,' she murmurs. 'Just ask him. Don't let him draw this out, it only empowers him.'

Not as easily done as said. Toru can see well enough that Winner has to work himself up to it. His hands clench to fists on his knees. _'Why don't you tell us about it,'_ he says.

Silence, then. A long silence, Rzhevsky doing nothing but looking at Winner, and Winner staring back at him. Toru knows that face. He touches Sally's arm. 'Get him paper,' he says.

She glances at him. 'What? Who?'

'Quatre. Get him paper. He's reading Rzhevsky.'

Amblyne faces him. 'We can't use Winner's-- whatever that is-- in court.'

Sally uses her mike again. 'Quatre, try to get him to say it. We're bringing paper.' She motions Dawes out to fetch it.

Winner clears his throat. Ricciardi gives him a water bottle, and Winner sips from it. _'Aloud,'_ he says, hoarse now.

_'If only your Preventer friends were as gifted as you.'_

_'Aloud,'_ Winner says again.

Rzhevsky sits back. After a moment he lifts his hands in defeat. _'As you wish. My orders came from Dekim Barton himself. Case File 93x-5742.'_

The tech is typing before Sally can order him to look it up. His head rises. 'It's from the old Alliance file classification system. 93x was destroyed decades ago,' he says. 'No recovery of it at all.'

'Even personal copies kept by Dekim Barton?'

'No record of it.'

_'There's no verification,'_ Winner tells Rzhevsky.

_'Quibble if you like. You see the truth.'_

Toru doesn't imagine Winner's reluctance. But he nods.

_'He created the Newtypes, you know,'_ Rzhevsky adds, almost conversationally. _'A fact I know very well. I was one of the first.'_

It's like puzzle pieces falling into place. Toru sees where it's going. One of the earliest of the experiments. And responsible for wiping out the rest when the programme failed. Forty-six doesn't seem so incredible a number, from that angle. There might not be-- God. There might not be any left on Earth but the two sitting in that room together.

Winner has put it together, too. His chest rises and falls in visible breaths; Ricciardi even puts a hand on his knee, under the table. Winner ignores him, maybe even never feels it. His eyes are locked on Rzhevsky's face.

_'Heero Yuy,'_ Winner says suddenly.

Rzhevsky shrugs. Cruelly indifferent. _'If he was one, I never knew it. There were some who died without giving up their names. Some so mad they might have forgot they ever had any.'_

_'And me.'_

_'I knew you'd disappeared. It doesn't much matter to where. But it is a pity. You were high on the list. Your family have disavowed you, you know. I tried to locate you almost nine years ago, now. I even hacked your sisters' personal accounts. Not a word. They don't even speak your name in private.'_

_'There's a list?'_ Ricciardi asks. He rises for the door, gets the pad of paper from Dawes. He places it on the table with a pencil. _'Write it down.'_

_'As you like.'_ Rzhevsky does, no further dissembling. The scratch of the pencil on the audio feed is the only sound for minute after minute. He fills a page, flips to the back. _'You'll find all of this validated in my data files. I keep meticulous records.'_

_'Why.'_

Rzhevsky looks up at Winner's flat interruption. _'Why?'_

_'Why do you keep meticulous records. For whom. Dekim Barton has been dead since 196 and so has been anyone who ever conducted Newtype experiments. Who the hell did you plan to report to?'_ Winner interrupts him again, as the pencil keeps scratching down the page. _'Aloud. I want them to hear it.'_

No answer. Rzhevsky just writes. Then he folds the bottom edge of the page, tears it free. He holds it out.

Ricciardi takes it, when Winner won't. He says, _'It's an internet address. WWW.THETRUTH.ORG.'_

_'The truth,'_ Winner echoes.

_'Let the Sphere decide for itself whether it's better off with or without the Newtype scourge.'_

_'They were innocents.'_ Ricciardi moves to hush Winner, then doesn't, and lets him go. Winner never notices the byplay, so concentrated on Rzhevsky. _'Some of them weren't even born when Alliance and Oz and the Resistance were conducting--'_

_'Ah, but it wasn't just Alliance and Oz and the Resistance. White Fang and its many factions dabbled in Newtypes, too. Romafeller. Century Discover Corporation. Dekim Barton did it not only for Operation Meteor but also for the Barton Rebellion. You might call the last decade of the 190s an eruption of Newtypes. And the ban on the research did nothing but push it deeper underground. You can place your bets that somewhere, someone is still trying to perfect the development.'_

Sally speaks softly into her mike. 'Lead him back to the murders. Why him?'

_'Why you,'_ Winner says. _'Why did you get appointed this... task. Destroying us.'_

_'Who better? You send a hound dog to root out the game.'_

Winner's hand slaps flat to the table. _'I still don't understand why! I don't think even you do. All this death you've caused, all this suffering-- why?'_

_'No suffering,'_ Rzhevsky retorts. He comes to his feet, and so does Ricciardi, warning him with a glare. Rzhevsky slowly retakes his seat. _'No suffering,'_ he says again. _'I always took great care on that score. And you cannot tell me that it was not a relief for most of them.'_

_'Most,'_ Winner says, so softly the mike almost loses his voice. _'And that's good enough. Putting them out of their misery like sick dogs.'_

_'I found most of them on the streets of cities like London. Mad, or hopeless. Not sick dogs. Feral dogs. No future. Only the potential to harm others with their mere existence.'_

_'And you want recognition for your good deeds. A medal congratulating you for your great personal sacrifice. The Truth. Scrubbing the world clean of this plague.'_ Winner touches the pictures, the dead Newtypes, turns one to face him. _'This great evil.'_

Ricciardi takes over when Winner falls quiet. _'Tell me about London,'_ he says. _'That's a long list, but we only found the one dozen, and here. What's different about London?'_

Rzhevsky answers, but only because he can't get Winner to look at him now. _'The deadline,'_ he says. He slumps back, crosses his arms again. _'The deadline accelerated.'_

_'What deadline?'_

Winner covers the picture with his palm. _'Cancer. He has cancer.'_

_'Prostate,'_ Rzhevsky says, with a ghost of a smile. _'It will be terminal. No time to be so careful as before. London was the last great city, anyway. I've done as much as I could.'_

_'And are you proud?'_ Winner asks him.

Rzhevsky gazes at him for a long time before he replies. _'The Newtype is an abomination of nature,'_ he says. _'You of all people know. I've made it possible for the Newtype to die out. To be nothing but an error-- not a future. A mistake that had a beginning and now has an end. I did what had to be done.'_

 

**

 

Rzhevsky's interrogation lasts nine hours.

There's no break for lunch. Toru, as the junior-most agent read in on the case, brings meals for the men in the room, sandwiches and juices and a fresh pot of tea, but the questions go on even as they eat. He's worried about Winner's health, after what he went through the day before, but Sally promises she's watching him for signs of discomfort and that he looks all right. But it's not just that. They're covering every gory detail, in there. Yet Winner never flags. And he does exactly what Toru had hoped he would do, pulling more out of Rzhevsky. For every word spoken there's three that Winner catches in the silence.

'Makes you regret that cancer diagnosis,' Amblyne says, just before he leaves them to it. 'A man like that ought to spend a very long life in prison.'

By six the offices are mostly empty, except for the group involved in their case. Sally's long shed her suit coat and her hair is in a sloppy ponytail, and the men have all gone to shirtsleeves. Toru catches himself dozing on his feet, and guiltily sneaks off to the toilets to splash his face with water. He might have begun the day refreshed, but he feels utterly drained now. Utterly drained.

But at last the door opens. Ricciardi is first, leading Rzhevsky out in cuffs. Rzhevsky sees Toru standing there-- he must, because Toru is right in their path-- but he gets no acknowledgment. Maybe that's for the best. Ricciardi leads him out, and Toru goes into the interview room. Winner is sitting still in his chair at the empty table, toying with his earpiece.

Toru places the iPod carefully before him. 'They said I could take you back to the hotel, now.'

Winner dislodges his hair with a rough swipe of his hand. He says, 'Are you old enough to drink?'

'Um-- in Britain, yes.' Winner takes the iPod and presses the earbuds in, thumbs the drive to life. 'I'm not sure liquor is the best idea for you right now. Didn't you say it clouds you?'

'I could use a little clouding.'

'Let's start with a real hot meal. Come on.'

Winner rises gingerly while Toru holds his chair. He stops Toru with a hand on his arm. 'Would you mind if we walked for a while?'

'I don't know if that's best idea for you, either. It's dinner hour. There's going to be a lot of people out there.'

'I know. I just-- I need a little air.'

'Would you rather try the roof?' he asks, inspired. 'There's a garden up there. I'll just make sure we have the key, and we can stay up there as long as we like. Can't get more private than twenty-three storeys above the rest of the city.'

Winner's lips turn up, but the smile fades before it really begins. 'Thank you. Yes.'

Po meets him in the corridor outside. 'Taking him back?' she asks, shrugging into her coat.

'Soon, I think. He needs a little space first.'

'Don't we all.' She rubs her hands briskly over her cheeks. 'They're not all this awful, Toru. These are the ones that stay on your soul. But it's these cases that remind you why we have to do what we do.'

Yes. He knows exactly what she means.

'Let him sleep in tomorrow,' Sally says then. 'Bring him in whenever. We'll do his security de-brief, and then we can send him home with our thanks and a big cheque. He came through for us. And so did you.'

Toru ducks his head. 'Mostly him, Commander.'

'I'm proud of you. As your senior officer and as your friend.' She presses a quick kiss to his cheek. 'It always surprises me. How much you've grown up. Your parents would be proud of you, too.'

He tells himself that doesn't sting. He tells himself he doesn't know why it does.

The roof garden is a welcome relief from hours of being cramped inside. Even this time of year, with little lingering piles of snow and the bushes all wrapped in sheeting, there's something calming about the sight of it all. He finds a bench to sit on by something green and hedgy, and watches Winner pace slowly around the edge of the rooftop. They're hardly the tallest building in the area, but they have a good view down the wide avenues between other businesses and government agencies, all the way to a fuzzy-looking horizon with an edge of orange and pink sunset. Winner stands watching it until it disappears into twilight.

The rustle of a wool coat is his warning. He opens his eyes as Winner sits beside him. He checks his watch-- they've been out here about half an hour. His body wants food or sleep, but isn't picky which. It's been a long week.

'Yes,' Winner says. 'Thanks for indulging me. It's helped.'

'I'm glad,' Toru says.

'There's no sunset in the colonies,' Winner says. He draws a deep breath of cold night air. 'I've almost forgot what that's like. It's been so long.'

'Why didn't you try to live there? After the war?'

'Mm. I don't know. I fell in love, I think. With Earth. We'd been sent here to destroy it. To conquer it. I didn't disagree that there were bad people on the planet, but I could never hate Earth itself. It has such beauty, even when there are such ugly, terrible things happening on it.'

Toru considers that. 'What are the sunsets like at St John's?'

'Cold,' Winner says, with a ghost of a smile. 'But not unlike this. Gentle. No explosions of colour. No dramatics. I like to walk in the hills, for the sunset. There's more people there than you'd think, but at night, the hills feel very empty, very-- empty isn't the right word, maybe. But I can imagine what it was like before people settled it. I like that, thinking about what this universe was like before people. Before war. Before Newtypes began to change even that.'

'You don't believe what he said. That Newtypes are an abomination.'

'No.' Winner rubs his bare hands, presses them between his knees. 'Whatever else I am, I'm human. A mutation, maybe, but still a human like the other seven billion.' He pauses. 'In a way, after all the filth I witnessed in his head... in a way I suppose it makes me feel more human than I have in years. He's the abomination, not me.'

'You asked him about Heero Yuy,' Toru says tentatively. 'Do you think he's dead?'

Winner shakes his head, but then his eyes dip sadly closed. 'I don't think Rzhevsky killed him. I think if he had, he would have told me, just to see my reaction. To see me realise I might be the-- last one. But I don't know if Heero's still alive, out there somewhere. I hope. I very much hope that he is and that he has peace.'

'Maybe he found a place, like you did. Somewhere remote where he won't be bothered.'

'For his sake, I hope so.' Winner is quiet for a moment, his eyes on the darkening sky. There's no stars visible, not over a city as polluted as London, but the sky feels vast and high and empty. 'You would have admired him. Not just his strength. He had the greatest heart of anyone I've ever known. Duo used to tease him for being such a stone-face, but I think Heero only did it so Duo would tease him, if that makes any sense. I used to love to watch them play on each other. And Wufei, he and Heero had a sort of rivalry, but only because they respected each other so much. Wufei took it very hard when Heero disappeared. We all did, but Wufei... I think he just saw it as the last blow of the war. Our war. What was the good of fighting for a better world if we were all to be kept out of it? It didn't surprise me that he joined the Haddad Rebellion. Any of them.'

'Even my parents?'

Winner looks at him sidelong. 'Even your parents,' he agrees. 'When the Sanq Kingdom collapsed it was like losing everything, every inch of progress we'd made as a species. It must not seem so apocalyptic to you.'

'It was just one kingdom.' Toru scratches at a broken nail, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. 'Aunt Relena's still on the Council.'

'Without the movement that brought her there. Without Sanq to lead the Pacifist Coalition, it was gone as if it had never been. Don't mistake me for a Pacifist-- it was my family's way and I left it for a reason. But Pacifism was about sovereign choice, too. The choice to co-exist peacefully, to let each nation determine for itself how to govern. That's freedom, Toru. And we had it for such a short time. What's the ESUN now but a tangle of mutual defence alliances? Threats of sanctions and sales of arms to every petty dictator who agrees to put pen to treaty. The larger powers can surround a smaller nation and crush it for even daring to vote.'

'That doesn't explain why my parents thought they personally had to rebel.'

'It wasn't really a rebellion. They were defending Kashagan Oil Field. When the ESUN Council voted to strip Kazakhstan of its right to expel foreign troops, it threw the whole region into war. What do they teach you about that, in schools?'

'That it escalated too quickly,' Toru says. 'The Big Thirteen voted to eject Kazakhstan from the United Nations, until China changed its mind and allied with Kazakhstan for the oil. Russia went with China and the Middle East was split down pro-West or pro-East lines. L4 and L5 shut down mining operations in Space in support of its allies, and L2 and L3 and L1 all went with the Americas. There were a few minor skirmishes, and then suddenly it was a full-scale rebellion.'

'Not suddenly. It almost tore the world apart. The rebels saved it. They made it a movement and they made it an issue that had to be confronted head on, instead of by each individual economic interest. Sovereignty.'

'How's that save anything?'

'Oil can be hidden. But not people demanding the right to decide for themselves what to do in their own country. It changed the story. If there had been war between East and West and Space it would have been devastating. That's how we had an Alliance, before either you or I were born-- they were the only force big enough to tamp down on the violence, but they wouldn't give up their power once they'd done it. But the Haddad Rebellion was put down and its leaders were exiled and the ESUN did what it had been planning to do all along-- it got the oil, but without the war.'

'If you thought it was so noble, why didn't you fight?'

'I didn't say I thought it was noble. I said I understand why your parents did, why it mattered to Duo and Wufei and to so many others.'

'But why didn't you fight?' Toru presses him, not knowing himself why it's even important, except that it is, except that Winner's the only one who's ever talked about it, and Winner's maybe the only one who will. 'Or Trowa Batron, or Heero Yuy? Even with your Newtype problems you could have done it.'

'I thought the risk was too great. I didn't think it would work.' Winner bites on his lower lip, lets it go with the marks of his teeth imprinted on it. 'Even knowing now how it ended I don't know that I'd choose any differently. At some point, the risk of war is too much. Too many die who didn't choose to fight, who couldn't choose. There were horrible civilian casualties in the Rebellion. From both sides. At the end of it, I don't believe anymore that it's my place to decide that fate for others.'

But his parents had. Toru had been five. They'd been there one day, and then they'd been gone; he didn't even remember for sure any more which had been the last time he'd seen them. Only that his Aunt Relena was sad, that Sally his babysitter was suddenly Sally his guardian.

'When did you change your name?' Winner asks him then.

Toru shrugs jaggedly. 'When I was sixteen. As soon as it was legal. I knew I wanted to be a Preventer. Sally thought it would help my career. As it was, I had to sit through extra security examinations. They went through everything I'd ever had from my parents. I signed a million forms swearing I'd report it if they so much as sneezed in my direction. Not that they ever will.'

'You miss them.'

'I miss the idea of them,' he corrects. 'But they chose, as you said. And I wasn't the choice that they made. Maybe they thought it was the greater good, but I think that's a question you should ask yourself before you have a family. Maybe they have got a family, by now. I've thought about it. I could have brothers or sisters on Mars. I'll never know them. So that's the world I think we've got. People make choices, and you have to live with them.' He faces Winner on the bench. 'So let me put this to you. You've got a chance to make a choice, here. Go back to St John's-- go back to being alone and nuts and useless. Or stay here. Work with Preventers. Or not. I'll help you find something if you really hate the idea of us. But stay. Because I think you want to. I think you need to. I know we've only known each other for a week and that I've bullied you into it already, but if you go back to St John's you're going to die without ever changing anything ever again. So stay here. Be part of the world again.'

'Toru.'

'Don't argue with me. Don't decide right now. Just sleep on it.' He stops Winner's protest by standing. 'You never make a big decision after a day like this one. Let's go find a place to eat.'

Winner shakes his head, but it's not disagreement. He pushes up, comes to his feet with a sigh. He says, 'Whatever I do decide-- it's been interesting, Agent Craft. Humbling. But interesting.'

'Same to you, Quatre,' he says, and despite the rest of it, finds he can smile.

The building is empty, by now, with only security in the lobby to watch them leave. It's not until Toru collects his mobile from the lockers that he realises he's had messages-- four in a row, and all from the same number. 'Hold on,' he tells Winner. 'Give me just a second to check these.'

'Of course.'

No ambiguity at all. It's Micheko's number, and her message is blunt. _'Toru, call me now,'_ she says, in the first message. In the second, it's _'Call me the second you get this,'_ and the third is, _'Where are you? Commander said she told you to go home twenty minutes ago. I'm waiting outside!'_ Toru grabs Winner by the sleeve and starts them moving toward the lifts before he's even opened the fourth message.

_'It's damn cold out here, Toru, and where are you? Barton's here with me. We're waiting for you and Mr Winner, and I can't get Barton into the building this late at night, so will you hurry?'_

Toru chews that one over with misgivings, sneaking sideways looks at Winner. Who catches him at it, and gazes back with raised brows.

'Why are you asking me?' Toru puts his eyes on the flick of storeys being counted down above his head. 'Can't you read it off me?'

'You're ambivalent. But you have been since I've met you.'

'I do have occasional flashes of certainty.'

'Right before breaking and entering, I've noticed.'

Toru fidgets with his phone, and slides it into his coat pocket. He can't decide if Winner needs a warning. It feels a little like an ambush, but if Micheko is out there too, it can't be bad. He hopes.

Maybe.

The lift hits ground floor, and Toru steps out first, forgetting his manners. Winner comes after him at a sedate enough pace. That changes, right before they meet the glass doors to the outside world. Winner slows with his hand lifted for the bar.

Resigned, Toru says, 'I'll pick you up at ten tomorrow.'

Winner glances at him, already distracted. 'What?'

'Go on.'

They only make it as far as the pavement. Toru sees Micheko before he spots Barton, though Barton is already walking toward them when they emerge. The flow of foot traffic swerves around him, a tall man who comes to a halt halfway to them. Even the wind dies down for them, a last breath stirring their hair, their hems, and then falling away.

Winner stays close to Toru, and it might be a coincidence, but Toru keeps his face stern and impersonal, reserving his judgment-- outwardly, anyway. And Barton gives first. His first step is small, his second smaller, but he comes to them, instead of making Winner chase him again. That, Toru thinks, says better of the man than anything he's seen yet.

'You came back,' Winner says.

Barton nods sharply. 'I got all the way on the plane. I made them let me off.' He stops himself, lips just parted on another word. Then, 'I may be on a no-fly list now. They weren't happy at the gate.'

Winner bunches his shoulders in his coat, pulls his collar up. 'I don't know, Trowa.'

'You do. You already said it.'

'That was this morning. This day-- I don't know what I think after this day.' Winner shakes his head. 'No, I'm not putting you off. You have no idea.'

'So tell me about it.' Barton comes one step closer, like it's all he can manage. 'I'd like to hear.'

Winner is wavering. He might walk, and Toru can understand that. It's too much, to have put himself out there only hours ago, but what hours they'd been. And Barton's not sure of himself, is questioning his own crazy about-face, it's there in his expression, the tightness of his eyes, the way he leans back on his heels, toward escape. But he waited for hours in the cold. And he's waiting now for Winner's answer.

Toru puts his hand on Winner's back, and pushes toward Barton. 

'I'll pick you up at ten,' he says again, and leaves them to it.


	6. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'I'm not a pretty face,' Toru says, and then wishes he hadn't. He buries his wince in his palms, scrubs his cheeks._

It's nine-fifty-eight when Toru knocks at Winner's hotel suite. He taps impatiently, fingering the card in his pocket, wondering if he'll need it. There are no messages on his phone, there were none waiting for him at their temporary offices in town. For all he knows, Winner never even made it home. There may not be anything to fear from Ivan Rzhevsky any more, but it's a big city full of unknowns, and Toru is more and more convinced he ought not to have left Winner on his own last night. If he doesn't answer soon Toru should just go in--

He hears the lock a second before the door swings wide. It's not Winner who answers. It's Barton. Who stands naked but for a skimpy hotel towel low on his hips.

Toru turns his flaming face away. 'Um,' he says.

'You're the kid assigned to him.' Barton lounges against the door jamb, crosses his arms over his chest. 'What do you want.'

'I said I'd pick him up at ten,' Toru replies as politely as he can. 'I'm Agent Craft.'

'Whatever.' Barton abandons the doorway. Toru hesitates, not clear if he's meant to just follow; and then he decides he doesn't care, because Barton isn't the one who matters. So he enters the room, and shuts the door behind him. 'Is he getting ready?'

'He's still sleeping.' Barton takes a right into the bath, which emits damp and steam from a recent shower. A moment later, there's a buzzer going. Toru peeks long enough to see Barton shaving his jaw and neck.

Still sleeping. And apparently not in the bathtub. Toru takes another step to peer around the corner. 'You got him to sleep in the bed?' he asks, surprised. Winner's still sprawled out in a tangle of sheets, his bare back gleaming pale in just the light from the bath. The ever-present iPod is still there, and when Toru listens for it he can hear music.

'There's a trick to wearing him out before he goes to sleep.' Barton runs the razor over his upper lip. 'You're a little young for him. Glad to hear he hasn't shared that particular secret.'

It takes Toru a second to get that. His face is hot again. He dumps his coat on the bureau, and goes to the bed. In the act of reaching for Winner's shoulder he has second thoughts-- third or fourth thoughts, truly-- about letting him have the morning, letting him have whatever this might be with Barton.

In the end it isn't his decision. Winner must feel him near, because he stirs. A hand emerges from beneath a pillow, rubs over his eyes, tugs at the cord for the earbuds. Toru steps back, but Winner rolls to find him, gazing bleary but directly at him.

'Good morning,' Toru says. He clears his throat. 'Sorry to wake you.'

'It's all right.' Winner's voice is even froggier than Toru's. He coughs, and sits up slowly. 'Time is it?'

Toru glances at his watch. 'Ten-oh-one. Two.'

'Oh.' Winner sucks in a deep breath, and digs the heel of his palm into his eyes. 'Trowa,' he calls out. 'Could you bring--'

'I can get it,' Toru says. 'Water? Lamp?'

'My trousers,' Winner says, and for the third time Toru is glad it's dark enough to hide all the blushing happening in the suite. 'There, by the-- yes.' Toru handles them gingerly, by the belt still threaded in the loops. Winner takes them, as awkward as he is. They drape over his lap, in hands that jitter without destination.

'I'll give you a minute,' Toru says then. 'However long you need. I'll wait in the lobby.'

Barton is standing in his way to the door. Toru is just a bare inch the taller, in his hard-heeled shoes. He keeps a level look, a neutral stare. Barton's eyes dip sideways in what looks like a grin, in the second before it vanishes.

'Trowa,' Winner says, behind them. It's the mildest of admonishments, amused. 'Let the poor man go.'

Barton shrugs wide shoulders. He pulls at the latch, opens the door an inch. He waits for Toru to get almost past him, and then he puts his hand on Toru's arm. His grip is not gentle, and Toru shakes him off by slapping his hand to Barton's shoulder and shoving. Barton hits the wall with a soft puff of air, and they stand there like that, a moment, facing each other down.

'You and I are going to talk,' Barton says. He lets go first. 'I have a long list of things to say to you and your command.'

'Keep your hands to yourself,' Toru tells him flatly. He leaves without looking back.

Toru has energy to burn, after that, nervous, angry energy that has him bouncing on the balls of his feet and ranging wide around the lobby looking for distraction. He doesn't want coffee, not now, but he makes a cup of tea, decaffeinated, with milk and sugar, and buys a plate of breakfast from the buffet. There's more than attitude there, more than arrogance or even a grudge. Toru stuffs a danish into his mouth and chews vindictively.

He doesn't hear Barton coming, and that doesn't make him any happier to see the man. Barton slides into the seat across from him. 'For me?' he says, and takes Toru's plate. 'How kind.'

Toru lets that go, though he hugs his tea closer to protect it. He licks his fingers of honey glaze. 'Where's Quatre?'

'Isn't that “Mister Winner” to you, Shrimp?' Barton takes Toru's fork and picks over Toru's eggs, sorting himself two piles that look identical enough to Toru's sceptical gaze. 'He's showering. He'll be done when he's done.'

'And you wanted to take this time to get to know me better? How _kind_.'

Barton puts a forkful past his lips. 'There are needlemarks all over him. What did you do to him.'

'I didn't do anything.'

'What did _Preventers_ do to him.'

'Nothing. It happened during our case. Which is classified.'

'I'm his emergency contact. I'm his legal power of attorney. I'm his everything that matters. Not only did Preventers make no effort whatsoever to reach me, he's had some kind of medical intervention.'

'All with his consent and his waiver,' Toru says.

'Bullshit.'

'Whether it is or isn't, it's classified.'

Barton eats another mouthful of eggs. 'You're not the first to approach him, you know. Not even the first out of Preventers. He used to try and help. In the early days.'

That pauses Toru. 'There's no record of that,' he says slowly.

'Maybe it's classified.' Barton spears a sausage, and slices it in half. 'He'd help until it started to get weird. To get obvious. When they started to ask for samples, he cut it off. We broke contact with Preventers and he went to St John's. So this is my thinking. Maybe Preventers have wised up. Maybe you don't ask for samples anymore. Maybe you don't ask at all.'

Toru steadies himself with a deep breath. 'I think you're paranoid, Mr Barton.'

'I think you're an idiot. Or worse. I think you walk in looking like some sweet kid who'd never hurt anyone. They always send someone who looks like you, you know. He likes the young agents, the interns. Thinks you're poor innocent lambs caught up in something you don't understand. But I'm not a nice man, and I don't get fooled by a pretty face. If there were needles, there's DNA.'

'I swear there's not.'

'You can't swear for your commanders. You can't swear for your department. You're the coffee boy. The babysitter.'

Toru holds up a hand. 'Look, even if there's evidence-- even if there is, it's going to be locked away. Preserved for the trial. And then it will be destroyed in accordance with the law.'

'Sure of that, are you.'

'It's my turn to ask you questions now.' Toru leans in over the table. 'What happens next? You know he's in love with you. So you stayed the night. Now his hopes will be up. So what do you do now? Do you go home? Leave him behind again? Preventers want to send him back to St John's.'

'And you want him to stay. He told me that. You've really wormed your way in with him, haven't you. Is it about money? He's still rich.'

Toru makes a contemptuous noise, wordless with frustration. He shoves back his chair. 'Have a great life, Barton.'

He's almost to the doors when Winner emerges from the lifts. He sees Winner see him, but he can't bring himself to turn about. Winner swings his head to the lobby for Barton, and then he steps out. After Toru.

It's getting warmer out, as if the entire country knows that Rzhevsky is behind bars and the world is safer for it. Toru turns up his collar but stuffs his scarf in his pocket, rather than wear it. He's angry, but it's fizzling already. So. Not the first time Preventers have approached Winner. Sally never said, when Toru raised the idea with her. He wants to be generous and hope she just never knew. But that's not particularly likely. It just galls him that someone as-- as--

'He's only upset.' Winner, pushing open the doors behind him. He joins Toru under the eaves, between two pleasantly scented juniper topiaries. 'And not a diplomat.'

'I'm not a pretty face,' Toru says, and then wishes he hadn't. He buries his wince in his palms, scrubs his cheeks.

Winner is smiling when Toru risks a sideways glance. 'Agent Walker is,' Winner replies, and leans back on the glass wall behind them. 'Have you asked her yet?'

'Asked her what?'

'To dinner. To a play. To a romantic competition on the gun range. Whatever it is young people do today.'

'She's older than me.' Toru hunches his shoulders, buries his hands in his pockets. 'Can we not talk about this? I'm not-- um. Going to.'

'You didn't come just to argue with Trowa.'

'No.' Toru straightens himself with an effort. 'I had an idea. I was hoping you'd go along with it. If you're feeling up to it. I know the last few days have been heavy.'

'Nothing ventured, nothing gained.'

'Save that until you hear what I'm thinking.'

Winner taps his temple. 'I have done. So to speak. And since it originated with my own suggestion, I'd be embarrassed not to agree now.'

'You made the suggestion before we knew how to find Rzhevsky. And given your feelings-- given Barton's feelings about us--'

'Ivan Rzhevsky killed forty-six Newtypes. I may never have known them, but they were like me. I'd like to pay my respects, in even this little way.' Winner nods back at the hotel. 'Trowa won't like it, that's true.'

'I don't suppose you can persuade him to wait here.'

'I shouldn't think so, no. But I think he'll be all right waiting outside the door when we get there.'

'I'm not as sure of that as you are,' Toru mutters. He points down the road. 'I'm parked just there. I'll bring the car around for you. Do you have luggage? I'll take care of checkout.'

'Actually-- I thought I might stay another night. Just to rest a bit.'

Toru faces him, trying to read him, wishing he had the same gift for it that Winner did, for this moment at least. 'Not for any other reason?'

'Not yet,' Winner says quietly. 'But... maybe.'

'I can be content with that. For now.'

Winner smiles again. 'Don't let Trowa batter you. I won't play referee all day.'

'We'll figure it out.'

 

**

 

London Preventers have their own morgue, for crimes that rise to that level. It's common for all field offices to have their own facilities, though not all of them might be so posh and new. But what sticks with Toru is how full the morgue is. There's a lot of bodies there, more than the dozen Rzhevsky's put there.

A white-coated coroner walks them past the autopsy rooms-- thankfully not their destination. Toru had to take a course in Preventers Academy like every agent, learning anatomy, forensic medicine, the basic science for determining cause of death; he wasn't the first to lose his lunch, but it had taken him a week to drown out the image of the doctor peeling back a human being's face to reveal the skull beneath it. A year later Toru hunches his shoulders and walks just a little faster past those brightly lit examinations.

Winner walks more slowly, his face blank behind his dark glasses. Barton is a possessive inch or so from Winner's shoulder, but he, too, looks blank, non-reactive to the sights and sounds-- and smells-- around them. It's all astringents and formaldehyde, and something else that Toru doesn't want to think about.

The coroner stops at a door labelled only 'Three', and swipes his badge across the scanner. 'You won't have in-and-out access,' he warns them. 'Once you're out, you'll need a badge to get back in.'

'We'll be fine, thank you.' Toru pushes open the door, and holds it wide so Winner can pass him. 'Mr Barton--'

'No,' Barton says, and pushes in past him.

Toru grinds his teeth together.

Winner has come to a stop mid-way into the room. Storage freezer, really. It's metal bunks all down the long, thin space, and on the bunks are plastic-wrapped forms. Bodies. There are yellow tags hanging from each bunk, and Toru turns the nearest to read it. 'Look for the case number,' he calls to Winner. 'They should be grouped.'

Or not. That's not the dead stop of a man who's not happy to be where he is. That's the way Winner had been acting at Rzhevsky's flat. When he starts moving, it's with a dreamy sway. And unerring accuracy. Winner walks straight to a body seven feet from him, and lifts a hand to touch the bunk.

Toru rubs his gloved hands to warm them. They won't be able to stay long, not at these temperatures. He walks past Barton, giving him a nudge with the broadside of his shoulder as he passes. 'Since you're here,' he says, 'you can help. Let's get it down to the table.'

It's grim work. Agents don't usually handle the bodies, not like this. He gets the plastic bag by the handholds at the head, and Barton gets the feet. Together they heave, and Toru winces as the body hits the small rolling table with a thump. Heavier than he'd anticipated. Toru reaches for the zip, and draws it down quickly, to the chest. He peels back the halves. It's a woman. 'Martha Llewellyn,' Toru reads from the tag. He takes the case file from his coat and thumbs on the e-reader to search for her name. He faces it toward Winner, but Winner shakes his head. He just stands there looking down at the woman, his fingers resting at the edge of her body bag.

'Martha Llewellyn,' Toru repeats. 'The file says she was ID'd post-mortem by her fingerprints. Arrested seven years ago for assault on L3. Immigrated on a work visa in 211, but her visa expired in 215. She was picked up for vagrancy a few times. Released due to overcrowding. She ought to have been deported. I wonder why they never ran her name through the databases.'

'She was living homeless.' Winner stirs, brushes his fingertip through the air above her hairline, red with open sores, and her nose and lips as well. Even sunken with death it's a face that speaks of a hard life, lined and worn. 'They probably just fed her and dumped her right back where they found her.'

Toru rests the reader on the table's edge. 'Can you get anything off her? Are you sensing anything?'

'I had the flash. Immediately. But magnified. I know there's others here, as well.'

'Why go to her, though? What were you picking up?'

'I don't know.' Winner gives him a small jagged shrug. 'No, I'm not reading her at all. She's dead.'

'Maybe if we try one of the others. See where it guides you.'

Toru and Barton return Martha Llewellyn to her rest while Winner turns a slow circle on the floor. It seems random-- this time Winner walks back almost to the door they came in, but he crouches to the bunk nearest the floor. Toru shifts him sideways, to get a good grip on the bag. Barton helps him heave again, and they lift the new body onto the table. Toru unzips it to reveal a younger face. A man this time, one of Rzhevsky's few male London murders. 'I remember him,' Toru says. He grabs for his case file, thumbing through the sections. 'In the beginning, before we knew it was about-- the type of people this case is about, we thought this was a deviation from the perp's MO. But he was found wearing women's cosmetics-- lipstick, rouge, that kind of thing. Locals found him naked in a trash pile. We thought maybe it was a revenge sort of thing-- mistaken identify leading to a rage killing. We never identified him, but signs pointed toward prostitution. Could have been a runaway, someone who wouldn't trip the system. No arrests, no prints from employment.'

'He's too young for a Newtype,' Barton says. When Toru looks sharply, Barton dismisses him with a contemptuous little wave. 'I'm not ignorant, and you've left enough clues. You brought Quat here to identify Newtypes, but the last Newtypes were from our generation.'

'It would appear not,' Winner answers him softly. 'This one can't be twenty yet.'

'Coroner thought he was mid-twenties, actually.' Toru decides to abandon further attempts to hide case details from Barton, as long as they stick to general topics; Barton might know enough about Newtypes to help, especially with his years of observing Winner and the other Gundam Pilots, and that could be helpful. 'Assuming that you started the Newtype experiments in, maybe, 193 or so--' He waits long enough for Winner's careful nod. 'That makes it twenty-four years ago. If this man started the experiments at roughly the same age you did, right at the beginning of adolescence, then that makes it maybe 205, 206.'

'That's a thirteen year range,' Barton says sceptically. 'There wasn't anyone around after the war to even be conducting the experiments.'

That edges over the line toward what Rzhevsky revealed in his confession. Toru hesitates over the best answer to give, but Winner beats him to it. He says simply, 'It would appear not.'

They stand in silence for a minute, then. Winner pushes the glasses up into his hair, and rubs the back of his neck. Barton does it for him, an automatic little gesture that brings a momentary smile to Winner's sad face, and lightens the tense line of Barton's shoulders, for a second, at least. Then Barton looks at Toru watching, and his hackles go right back up, with a hard glare. Toru glares back, until Winner sighs.

'Sorry,' Toru mutters.

'Sorry,' Barton echoes.

'I can't order you to make peace,' Winner warns them. 'But I'm going to suggest you give it a try. Am I clear on that?'

Toru coughs into his elbow, tightens his scarf around his neck. 'Do you want to try one more? Maybe one of the ones we found in-- you know who's apartment?'

'Maybe. I suppose we ought to be sure.' Winner turns, and points. 'There.'

Yes. All on a bunk together, conserving space, perhaps. The opaque plastic can't hide the size of what it holds, and Toru can't quite hide a cringe when he picks up the first. It's light, only ten pounds or so, and he's delicate in placing it on the table, somehow more wary than before even of damaging it, hurting the person it used to be. There's hair snagged in the zip, and he struggles with it, trying not to think about it. Finally he opens the bag fully, pushing down the plastic sides, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

'Who?' Winner asks only.

Toru picks up his case file. 'Georgie Fisher. The youngest one we found in London. Actually-- the youngest of all the victims, from what they've confirmed so far. Twenty-two this past June.'

'What did you know about her?'

'From a titled family in Scotland. Youngest daughter. Went to boarding school in Lisbon, started to have problems. Got caught with drugs and was expelled, but went to live with relatives in Portugal rather than return home. Went off the grid at age sixteen. Her family coordinated a large search for her, but never turned anything up. We matched her dental records. They haven't alerted the family yet.'

'That's sad,' Winner murmured.

'It's normal,' Barton corrected. 'And it happens every day.'

'That's sad, too.' Winner looks up to Toru. 'Am I glowing?' he asks suddenly.

Barton's eyebrows climb. 'Glowing?'

Toru shifts on his feet. 'Um. No. Presently.'

'I'm going to try to read the girl. Tell me what you see.' Winner removes his gloves with two sharp tugs, and places his hands around the severed head, cupping it gently.

Toru presses his lips tightly between his teeth. 'I don't see anything.'

'And you've never seen any such signs during the usual exercise of my abilities. When I'm reading you, or reading anyone else.'

'Not usually, no.'

'So what makes it extraordinary?' Winner lets go of the head slowly, with a stroke of a shiny lock of black hair. 'Poor girl. I can feel the-- Newtypeness. It's stronger in her than the others. It draws me. But there's no thought left in there, no personhood. Our murderous friend wouldn't have known that. Maybe it shocked him, to realise he could still feel the Newtypes after their deaths. Any chance of asking him?'

'Maybe. I'll ask Commander.'

'Maybe you ought not to. You'd have to explain why we want to know.' Winner shakes his head, shakes himself all over. 'No, Trowa, I can't tell you this. I have no desire to meet a judge if I break a non-disclosure agreement.'

'He means it's classified,' Toru says.

'I know what classified is, kid.' Barton takes Winner's hands and scrubs them briskly with an alcohol wipe from the box on the table. He adds, 'You used to get weird with Heero.'

'What?'

'What?' Toru zips up the bag. 'Heero Yuy? Because he was also a Newtype?'

'Exactly how much have you told Preventers?' Barton demands.

'I'm not ignorant either,' Toru tells him flatly. 'What do you mean, he was weird with Heero Yuy?'

'Weird.' Barton catches Winner's warning glance, and surrenders with surprising grace. 'I don't know what you thought it was going on, but sometimes the two of you would just stare at each other. Once I told him to back off on you. He didn't have any idea what I meant. I don't think he knew it was happening.'

'I don't think I did. We were close. I understood him without speaking. Even before-- this.' Winner waves a hand distractedly at his head. 'You told him to back off?'

'You're a soft touch,' Barton says, with a ghost of a smile.

'The horror,' Winner mutters. 'Well, that's not an experiment we can replicate without locating Heero. Which leaves us where we started. I'm sorry, Toru.'

So is he. That feels-- final. They solved so many mysteries in such a short time that some part of him had sort of-- just-- assumed, really, that this one would fall in line too. He tells himself it's not disappointing, and tells himself, too, that it's not an issue he's likely to face anytime soon, but-- still.

'So we're done in here?' Barton asks then.

'I guess so.' It's Toru's turn to give himself a shake. 'Quatre, you're sure you're not sensing anything from any of the bodies?'

'I might be able to tentatively confirm one thing. I've never been in a room with so many Newtypes, and I don't know if it would be different if they were alive, but I am noticing differences in the... I don't know quite how to describe it, but it's like a pull. Pulling me toward some more than others. I overheard you say before that you thought some Newtypes might be more powerful than others. And I think you might be right in that.'

'So whatever their particular abilities were--'

'And I have no way of knowing that. But Rzhevsky's data might tell you.'

'True. But some of them would maybe have more control? More range?'

'Again, I don't know. But it seems like a good guess.'

'So Martha Llewellyn? Georgie Fisher, and the unidentified man?'

'Can I see the other-- the women from his apartment?'

'Do you have to?' Barton interrupted. 'I'm serious. Even on the scale of scientific experiments that intersect with what appears to be a wicked murder spree, this is creepy. And cold. And you know that cold makes it worse.'

That's news to Toru. He turns on Winner. 'You didn't tell me that! You let me drag you into a half-frozen pool the other day!'

'In which case the cold made it better, didn't it.' Winner is wearing a faint blush, though. 'It doesn't make it worse, it just makes me shiver.'

'You're going to argue with me?' Barton demands. 'Cold runs you down. Let's not pretend we're toughing this out so you can look at body parts, Quat.'

'I would like to try, though. It's only another minute. Please, Agent Craft.'

Toru has reservations, but the habit of being thorough is tugging at him. It never hurts to be absolutely sure. So he lifts Georgie Fisher's remains back to the shelf, and brings down the next in the dismal queue of bags. 'The tag says this is Yolanda Mendoza. Age forty-one. We ran her dentals. She was a Specials officer-- junior lieutenant. She was injured in Libra and relocated to San Jose, in America. She had a child, father unregistered, but then started suffering mental health problems. Her baby was taken away by the state, and she went off the grid after some sporadic attempts to seek treatment. No record of how she ended up in London.'

'Maybe she didn't.' Barton stops Winner's reach and undoes the zip himself, revealing limp, mouse-brown hair and grey-toned skin. 'Just speculating, but from what I gather, your murderer was keeping these heads in his apartment, right? If they're important enough to enshrine in your home, they're important enough to move there with you.'

'You're right,' Winner says slowly. 'Did the coroner establish time of death?'

'I don't have notes in the case file. I don't think they've done a conclusive autopsy yet. Cause of death was fairly obvious, so there wasn't a rush. So these women could have been killed anywhere.'

'And any-when.' Winner moves to touch the head, and Barton blocks his hand. 'It did nag him. He couldn't understand it. And couldn't leave them behind.'

'You didn't pick up anything about it yesterday, when he was-- talking about it?'

'We were focussing on the details of the murders, not the aftermath. And there were so many people there. I know there had to be, but it might have been easier to read him, if we'd had more privacy.' Barton blocks Winner again, and Winner frowns absently. 'May I see the last woman?'

Toru brings the bag down. 'Asiya Junaid, forty-seven. No known military affiliations, but she was arrested during the Colony War for assisting the Resistance. She was released after Libra with all the rest of the political prisoners. No pings on the major records sources after that.'

'If she became a Newtype under Dekim Barton's programme, she would have been quite early in the process. Decades before me.'

'You did say you thought it went back that far.'

'Yes, I did. Confronting the proof is something a little different.' Winner flattens both hands to the table to either side of the head. He's quiet for a long time, then, just looking down at it.

'All right,' Barton says finally. 'We're done with whatever you were doing in here?'

Toru nods. 'I think so.'

'Then let's get out of here.' Barton takes Winner by the knot of his tie. 'We're leaving,' he orders. 'No argument.'

'No argument.' Winner offers him a weary nod. 'Back to the office, Toru?'

'Lunch first.'

'Of course,' Barton says. 'Nothing like a plate of cooked meat to really round out the atmosphere.'

 

**

 

Toru lugs a full bag of take-away to the car, and finds that both men have moved to the backseat. He knocks on a window before he opens the door, and two heads turn toward him. 'Everything okay?' he asks, sliding into the driver's seat.

'Headache,' Barton says shortly. 'He said you had pills?'

'Yeah.' Toru digs in his coat and finds the bottle in his pocket, and passes it back. 'Here, take it with a little caffeine and sugar. That always helps me.' He digs a bottle of fizzy Lucozade from their lunch, and passes that too. 'You all right, Quatre? I'll drive further into the park.'

'Thank you.' Winner shakes a tab into his palm and swallows it. He breaks the seal on his drink, and puts it to his lips. Barton has a hand on his knee, and Toru can see him stroking slowly with his thumb. Toru faces forward, and puts the car in gear.

It's not easy to find a spot without people, not at lunch hour, on a day that's turning quite nice, but Toru drives to the far side of a little pond and finds an empty lot for them to occupy. 'You want to get out?' he asks his passengers. 'Fresh air. Walk a little.'

'Maybe just sit a moment.' Winner moves like an old man, getting out of the car. Toru beats Barton to the job, and helps Winner out by offering his arm. 'Headache that bad?'

'I think I'm overusing my abilities.' Winner doesn't quite lean on him, but Toru keeps his arm near, just in case, and aims him at a bench just past the edge of the lot. They dip onto dry winter grass and he eases Winner down. 'Thank you,' Winner tells him, and pats his hand.

Barton is just a step behind with their lunch. 'You really want to be useful, figure out which of these is which.' Barton takes the seat next to Winner. 'Finish your drink. Here you go.'

Toru separates sandwiches by the ingredients; egg and cress for Winner, prawn in marie rose sauce for Barton, and a loaded club for Toru. He shucks the paper wrapping and takes as large a bite as he can manage, almost choking himself. He's starved.

'At least the morgue didn't keep you down long.' Winner pushes his glasses up again, squinting against the sun. 'To be young.'

Toru swallows manfully. 'There's soup, too. Potato and leek, and oxtail, and whatever Cullen Skink is.'

'Thank you.' Barton has their sandwiches unwrapped, and coaxes Winner into a bite. Small bite. Winner turns the triangle of bread about in his hands, side by side by side. 'What's the agenda for this afternoon?'

'We have to debrief you.'

'And what is that going to involve?'

'You never did it before? When you worked with Preventers in the past?'

Winner casts him a keen look. And then turns it on Barton. 'I see you've been sharing.'

'You could have told me,' Toru ventures. He packs in another bite of his sandwich, and licks an errant squidge of sauce from his knuckle. 'If it's true, it's not like it matters.'

'You obviously didn't know. It wasn't relevant to our relationship.'

'You mean it might have changed my approach.' Toru chews slowly, this time, thinking his way through that. 'You had an edge. As long as I was in the dark, you could trust my reactions.'

Winner shreds the crust from his bread a flake at a time. 'Plainly, yes. I didn't do it solely to manipulate you.'

'You just didn't want to be unduly manipulated by me.'

'Your command could have told you.'

That's a separate issue. 'It will be informal,' Toru says. 'Probably one of Sally's deputies. We'll produce a written summary and you'll have a chance to agree or disagree with the presentation. They may want to record the session, if you give your permission.'

'Is this going to be thoughts and feelings or is this going to be specific informational?'

'Considering who you are, sir, I'd say specific informational. I'd say you're under no obligation to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable, but I don't think you've got much problem with that.'

Winner smiles briefly. Barton taps his wrist, and he takes an absent bite of his increasingly mauled sandwich.

'Overusing your abilities?' Toru asks then. 'Has that ever happened before?'

'It used to happen all the time,' Barton answers. 'It's why he went to St John's. We made the mistake of getting near a shopping mall and he collapsed. And it happened all over again in the hospital. Even drugged he was responding to it.'

'But that didn't happen here.'

'It might have, if you'd dragged him around feeling up bodies and tracking murderers for another week.'

'We don't know that,' Winner murmurs. He drops his sandwich back into the wrapper. 'Maybe it's different now.'

'Forgive me for not being optimistic, Quat. I remember Andalusia.'

'Andalusia?' Toru asks curiously.

Winner sighs softly. 'We tried, in the beginning. To find a remote place. Hide away. It seemed to work, at first, but it was a small community, the kind of place where neighbours take great interest in each other. We were there barely a month and I became so familiar with all their minds that I could hear them even over greater range. I couldn't tune them out once I knew them. The way it is with you and Trowa.'

'But the same thing doesn't happen at St John's?'

'I have limited contact with the staff, and most of the patients are transient. Or medicated. It's as small a population as I could manage without abandoning humanity altogether. And I've always thought that must be its own form of madness.'

Toru drops into a comfortable crouch on the grass, resting his elbows on his knees as he picks at the greens in his sandwich. 'But you're okay right now. With the two of us.'

'You're a bit of a unique case, the two of you.' Toru glances away as Winner takes Barton's hand, twining their fingers. 'Your minds are quieter. Focussed. I still read you constantly, but there's less... random noise.'

'I don't think I understand entirely,' Toru confesses. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's all right. I've been living with this since I was your age, and I'm no closer to divining the rules.'

'But you don't think that if you got a little house or something, if you found a place that was outside town, that you'd be all right there? Back at St John's you told me distance made a difference, that you had to be near people to read them.' Toru finishes his club in two large bites, and gestures toward the bag for soup. Barton passes him a plastic container and spoon without protest, and Toru inclines his head in cautious thanks. 'Did you try that in Andalusia? And maybe it dovetails with what we've been thinking about-- you know who and all the other Newtypes. Some Newtypes have more power than others. Maybe the ones who have enough can learn how to control it over time. Some of the dead were living normal lives. Not a lot of them, but a few, at least. And you can say a lot of things about Rzh-- him, but you can't say he wasn't sane. And you may not be happy, but you're not homeless and crazy, either.'

He knows by the way Winner's head tilts toward Barton and his eyes go narrow that they're communicating. That must have been a trick with benefits, even if it only works one direction. And then before he quite thinks it through he's trying it, himself. _Can you hear me?_ he says silently. Winner's head doesn't turn, and he tries it again, concentrating just on Winner's face, pushing it out at him. _Can you hear me too?_

Winner looks up, blinking rapidly. 'How odd,' he says.

_Can you? Is this really working?_

Winner rubs his temples. 'Stop that, please. It tickles.'

Toru relents. He pries the lid off his soup, now rather less than hot, and stirs it with his spoon. Barton gave him the oxtail, and given the greasy slide of the chunks of meat floating in swirls of brown broth, he doesn't take that as accidental. But he's hungry, and he's eaten worse. 'That's not how it works with Mr Barton?' he asks, chewing carefully at his first bite. That tastes mostly like carrot. Not bad.

'Not quite, no.' Winner is reading him now, he knows that face, and Toru just leaves himself open to it. Winner surrenders after only a moment, waving it off with a little shrug. 'It seems we're all experimenting together,' Winner murmurs.

'Eat your soup,' Barton tells him, and puts it in his hands.

Toru's mobile buzzes in his pocket, and he hurriedly juggles his food to the grass so he can answer it. 'Craft,' he says, and rises to step away from the other two on their bench.

_'Guess who.'_

'Micheko.' He smiles at the air. 'How are you?'

_'I'm all right. Just calling to get an update on the gossip.'_

'What gossip?'

_'Don't be such a boy. Barton and Winner! What happened?'_

Toru glances behind him. They look normal enough, nothing lovey-dovey happening just now. 'Barton's still here, anyway. I think mostly so he can be sure we're not secretly torturing Mr Winner.'

_'So they spent the night together?'_ She hums a little, and Toru smiles again. _'It's romantic. At least pretend to find it romantic.'_

'I must be seeing it from a different angle.'

_'Are you bringing them in today after all? Commander asked if I'd heard from you.'_

'Damn.' Toru checks his phone for the time. 'She made it sound like there wasn't a deadline. I was going to ease him into it.'

_'I don't think there is, just that she wants to know the schedule. We're getting ready to head back to Brussels. Flight's tonight at eight.'_

So soon. It's procedure, but if his team are flying home, that means he'll be escorting Winner back to St John's. If they even allow him to play escort. Now that the case is over, they might just let him go to the airport to see Winner off.

'We'll be in shortly,' he answers belatedly. 'Can you make sure they pick an outside-facing room for the debrief? The more space the better.'

_'Sure.'_

'When are they moving Rzhevsky? I assume they're moving him.'

_'Not for the near future, actually. London's the only station with any legal hold on him, until we get confirmation on the other murders. Once they find the bodies, there'll probably be extradition hearings. That's a ways out.'_

'More than a ways. It could be months until all the field offices run down the rest of that list of his. And if he's really got victims in a dozen countries, the hearings will--' He blows a long breath out past pursed lips. 'He won't live until trial, will he. Not at that pace.'

_'If he's really dying.'_

'Did they schedule an examination?'

_'I'd assume so.'_

A grim victory, then. It really is unfair, even if it's technically a death sentence. Rzhevsky will die in prison, at least. But it just feels unfair.

_'We did our job,'_ Micheko tells him. _'We caught him. And we stopped him from hurting anyone else.'_

'Forty-six bodies too late.'

_'It could have been forty-eight. Bear in mind that you personally saved Winner and yourself, for that matter.'_

Toru makes an effort to shake it off. 'We'll be in soon. We're stopped for lunch. Also, I'm going to need a Visitor's badge for Barton. Could you get him on the list at the front desk?'

_'Will do. I'll let Commander know.'_

'Micheko...'

_'What?'_

It was only an impulse. It clogs his throat, and he can't quite get anything out now that he's started. 'Um,' he manages, and tries to cough. 'I, um.'

_'Toru? You still there?'_

'Do you want-- to-- I--' He about-faces. Winner is watching for him, and nods encouragingly. 'Damn it,' Toru says again, and turns back to the pond. 'Do you, maybe, only if you want to-- get a drink tonight?'

The silence seems to last forever. It's utterly agonising. Stupid, Toru tells himself, never take advice again, idiot. He's almost on the verge of hanging up and hoping she just didn't hear him when she suddenly answers.

_'Yes,'_ she says. _'Let's do that. Before we have to fly out.'_

He feels wild hope. 'Okay,' he agrees weakly. 'Um. See you soon.'

_'Yeah. Good-bye, Toru.'_

And as soon as he hangs up, he feels wild terror. He faces Winner again. 'Oh, God,' he says.

Winner chuckles. 'It's not that bad.'

'Not that bad? I think I might faint.'

Winner's grin is not sympathetic. But he extends a bit of plastic-wrap from their lunch bag. 'Have my biscuit,' he says. 'You earned it.'

'Shut up,' Toru retorts, and grabs the cookie. 'Don't think I'm not eating this.'

'Good lad,' Winner says indulgently.

 

**

 

The airport lounge is bustling. It makes Toru's back itch, right between the shoulder blades. He tries to wash it off with a splash of cold water in the men's, but as soon as he steps back into the crowd outside, the sensation is back, tenfold.

Micheko is waiting for him at Jake's Bar. It's an unremarkable place, chrome and red and black in ignorable proportions, the usual bland signage and neon liquor advertisements. Toru barely sees any of it. Like him, Micheko's in an agent's usual uniform-- dark suit, white dress shirt, meant to be as unremarkable as their surroundings. But her hair is especially pretty, tonight, swept over her right shoulder, just slightly mussed, as if she'd just run her fingers through it. Toru feels a spasm of nerves in his hands, and shakes them until the tingle goes away.

'Hi.' Her smile curves up when he approaches, producing two dimples to either side. Her eyes are a lively brown, rich and chocolaty. Toru has to try twice to get out his own greeting.

'So what's your poison?' she asks him, as he slides onto the stool beside her.

'Honestly-- I don't really know.' Now is maybe not the best time to admit that the closest he's ever come to drinking is a swallow of vodka, a dare from Preventers' Academy, and that it made him so ill he'd never repeated it. His classmates had indulged, though, and when the bartender comes toward them, Toru clears his throat and orders. 'Seven and Seven,' he says gruffly.

Micheko's grin is back. 'Seven and Seven? Don't be a frat boy.' She shakes her head at the bartender. 'Bring us two black IPAs.'

'What's an IPA?'

'It's a beer. My father used to brew at home, did I ever tell you that? My mother still has all his old recipes.'

'He died when you were a kid, didn't he.' Almost as soon as he asks it, he's annoyed with himself. Bringing up dead parents is not romantic.

Micheko answers easily enough, as their beers arrive in two sweating bottles. 'Cheers,' she says, and clinks them together. 'Yeah, he did. In the war. He was an officer in the Specials, actually. Second Lieutenant Ennis Walker. He died fighting a Gundam.'

Toru chokes on his first sip. 'What?'

'Gundams Oh-Three and Oh-Four.'

Trowa Barton and Quatre Winner. 'I didn't know.' Toru wipes the sweat from the bottle on his trousers. 'Does Winner know?'

'According to everything we know about him, I'd say he would have read it off me.' Maybe. He remembers Winner being tense around her, when they first met, but he'd assumed it was just the addition of another person to the mix. Micheko takes three steady swallows, and places her beer carefully on the bar. 'He wasn't what I was expecting,' she says. 'Then again, neither are you.'

'Me?'

She faces him abruptly. 'I've been wanting to tell you. For a while now. I do know who you are.'

This is too much news too quickly. Toru takes a few deep swallows of his own, hoping that liquid courage isn't a myth. It tastes like bubbly coffee, bitter and sweet at the same time.

'I'm not planning on telling anyone,' Micheko says then. 'I don't want you to think that I would. Not for any reason.'

'How did you figure it out?'

The tips of her fingers light on his wrist. 'My father had pictures, from the Specials. Including pictures of your father, when he was young. You look a lot like him. But I can't really take any credit for it. I saw you reading your mail once, about a month ago. You had a letter. It was signed “Aunt Relena”.'

'I'm not in contact with them. My--' He glances around, but they have a little island of space, and there's no-one obviously listening in. 'I don't ever hear from them. I'm not breaking the law.'

'I never thought you would be.'

'So why bring this up now?' he demands. 'Why withhold it at all? And I don't understand what it means about Winner--'

'Did he get out okay?'

Toru controls himself with a deep breath. 'He's staying one more night. With Barton. He'll get an afternoon flight back to St John's.'

'Will Barton go with him?'

'Yeah. I got the impression there was going to be a lot of long talks in their future.'

'Maybe there's hope for them after all.'

'Are you really going to sit there and tell me you think it's so romantic, now that you've admitted they killed your father?'

'My father fighting in a war killed my father. And I've run into plenty of people whose parents were Alliance, and my father probably had a hand in killing them. Our parents lived in a different time. I feel blessed not to.' After a moment, Micheko sits up at the bar again, reaches for her beer. She sips slowly, turning the bottle in her hands. 'Besides. Barton's hot, and Winner's sweet. It is romantic.'

'That sounds crazy, Micheko.'

'Crazy's going around, these parts. Maybe you can be crazy and functional at the same time.' She tips her bottle back to finish it. 'I guess the question is whether crazy will still work in Brussels.'

'I don't-- understand.'

'Do you like me?'

That's coming to terms with a vengeance. 'Um,' Toru says, and drinks his beer. No courage hiding in the bottom there. His stomach is turning somersaults. 'Yes,' he says, or tries to say, something between a croak and a plea.

She nods once. 'I like you. I'm not saying it's that easy. There's some hurdles. You're eighteen, and I'm twenty-two. We work together. But.'

'But?'

'But,' she says. 'But I think it's time for us to just-- be upfront about it. Without expectations for what happens next. Let's just admit to it.'

'So...' It occurs to him that the queasy twisting of his stomach might be a reaction to the alcohol. But this throat is so dry he keeps on drinking, and drinking, until suddenly when he puts it to his lips nothing comes out. He clutches it between his palms. 'So... where's that leave us.'

She laughs. There's a tremor to it, and he thinks grumpily that at least he's not the only one who's got a case of the shakes. 'I have no idea,' she says.

'Maybe when we-- land-- we could--'

'What.'

'Go out. Somewhere.'

'Maybe we shouldn't.'

'So what, we're just friends and co-workers who like each other? That's it?'

'Maybe it's smarter.'

'Well-- I don't know if I want to be smarter.'

She's looking at him. Toru is rallying himself up for something big, some kind of grand statement building up like it's going to burst out of him, but the loudspeaker squeaks on, and he swallows it down. It's their flight, announcing boarding.

'We should go,' Micheko says.

'I guess.' He fumbles out his wallet for change, and leaves a note on the bar.

'Toru.' Micheko stands slowly. 'Let's just put it on ice for a few days. We'll talk about it again. See if anything's changed.'

'Yeah.' He comes to his feet, buttons his coat. And then before he can think too much about it, he puts his hand on Micheko's shoulder, holds her still, and kisses her.

Her dimples are showing again when he rocks back. 'Nice,' she whispers.

'Yeah.' He gulps in a breath. 'Um. Sorry.'

Her sudden bright laugh makes him blush. Her lips brush his again, tenderly. 'Nicer,' she says, and walks briskly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abundant thanks to Kaeru Shisho, the artist responsible for the lovely fan art. More of her work in an upcoming chapter.


	7. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'They want to verify Rzhevsky's observations about the Newtypes,' Winner says. 'They want me to come in and verify that it's all possible, that the experiments can produce people with these abilities. They want me to tell them how to do it. They want to create new Newtypes.'_

Toru sits looking at the number for almost an hour before he can bring himself to dial. Work goes on around him as a matter of course, his fellow agents in their own ebb and flow of business, but it's a strangely noiseless place. When they speak, they do it in quiet murmurs, and move on swiftly.

Toru blows out a big breath, and picks up the phone.

It rings for nearly a minute. Toru almost hangs up, but stays his hand. It's not going to be better news for waiting.

Finally the line clicks. There's a pause, and Toru hesitates, unsure if he should speak first. Then he hears a sigh.

 _'Well,'_ Winner says. _'And hello to you, Agent Craft.'_

Toru smiles. 'How did you know it was me, sir?'

_'I haven't been surprised by a call since I was a child. But you'll have to tell me what it is you've rung about.'_

'Checking on you. Hoping you're well.'

_'Yes. Thank you. And you? You're happy to be back to work?'_

'Happy. Yes.'

_'And the lovely Agent Walker?'_

'Um-- I guess I'm not really sure how to answer that one.' Toru clears his throat. 'Do you think-- I was thinking maybe I could visit.'

 _'I'd be pleased,'_ Winner answers, a cautious moment later. _'Social visit?'_

'Not quite.'

_'Ah.'_

Toru rolls a pencil across his desk. 'You free later this week?'

_'I'm free at your convenience. There's weather coming. Spring storms.'_

'God forbid it be easy to get to you.'

_'That was rather the point. I'll let them know you're coming.'_

'Okay. Well-- I'll see you in a few days, then. Do you need anything? Can I bring it?'

_'Thank you, but I have everything I need here.'_

'Even your iPod?'

_'Your agency's iPod. I'm all right, Toru. Thank you.'_

'All right. Friday, then.'

_'Friday.'_

 

**

 

It is still damn cold at St John's.

If anything at all has changed in the two months since his first visit, Toru can't find it. His small six-passenger plane makes a bumpy landing at a gravel airstrip, skidding to a stop just when it seems they'll careen off the plateau and plunge for the ocean. The cab ride into town isn't much better. The rain that pelts the car is frenetic, like it's coming from all directions, and it's making craters out of the roads, washing away whole feet of concrete at a time. Toru spends the forty-minute trip through town in white-knuckled terror of careening to his death.

But at last they're past the city and the nose of their car points up, into the hills. The storm doesn't seem so terrible, now, and by the time they wind their way up the path to the hospice. Toru throws cash at the driver, and unclips his seatbelt. 'Thanks,' he says. 'Can you wait? I'll pay double the cost of sitting for it. It should be two hours or so.' He waits for his nod, and leaves the car, stepping out into a spit of cold, wet wind.

His umbrella is useless almost immediately, and he gives up on it before he even reaches the door. He rings the bell, three sharp buzzes. 'Agent Craft of Preventers,' he calls. 'Hello?'

'There you are.'

'Jeez.' Toru jumps almost out of his skin, and leans his head on St John's chill stone wall. 'Did you have to do that?'

Winner's eyes crease with smiling. 'I didn't mean to fright you. I'm taking a walk. Join me?'

'In this weather?'

'If I wanted better weather I'd have to wait til summer.' Winner takes his hand from his pocket, and holds out a cap just like the one he's wearing. 'There you are. You'll be fine. Fancy the gardens?'

Toru twists his wet hair and pulls the cap up over it. 'You don't look all that well. You sick?'

'Under the weather. You don't look so well yourself.' Winner leads him round the side of the building. 'Stress, or something more?'

'There's a lot happening at work.'

'I imagined so, since it was too important to discuss on the phone.' There are indeed gardens. Not much to them but vegetable plots, but a good stretch of those. 'Those tomatoes there,' Winner says, pointing. 'That's my handiwork. In six weeks' time we'll have our first harvest of the year.'

'Do you like tomatoes?'

'No,' Winner says. 'Sit? There's benches.'

'Sure.' He sweeps a little puddle off the wooden slats, and does the same for Winner. 'Under the weather? Did you see a doctor?'

'I did, mother. Don't worry about it.' Winner folds his coat between his knees and settles. 'You know, I rather like this kind of weather. It reminds you how fragile we are.'

'And that makes you like it?' Toru stuffs his hands into his pockets. It's not quite as cold as London was, and they seem to be sitting on the right side of the building, sheltered from the worst of the wind, but fragile is definitely how he's feeling at the moment. 'Where's Mr Barton?' he asks then. 'Did they let him stay up here, or did he have to get a hotel in town?'

'Trowa went back to Paris.'

Toru looks sharply at him. 'What? When? Why?'

'His work is there. And his partner.' Winner stares off into the distance, to the silver limn on the horizon that is the ocean. 'Ewin is a good man. A good friend. He doesn't deserve to be... Anyway. It was good for us. To get closure on old-- old feelings. We can go back to being friends.'

'That's bull,' Toru says bluntly. 'It didn't look a damn thing like just friends to me.'

'You'll find as you go through life that you accumulate obligations. When we were seventeen we could run away together, damn the world. Now there's twenty years of other people, other--' Winner rubs his hands slowly together. 'It's all right, Toru. Things are as they're meant to be.'

'I don't think anyone is meant to be alone.'

'Why did you come, Toru? Not just to check on me.' Winner meets his gaze frankly, and sighs when Toru glances away. 'I'll read it off you if you'd like, but perhaps you'd like the chance to say your little prepared speech.'

'It kind of takes the joy out of it, if you know already I've prepared it.' Toru pulls his cap down where his neck is exposed to the cold. 'I came to ask if you'd be willing to come to Brussels.'

'Brussels,' Winner repeats.

'We've been growing a list of follow-up questions from our case. We'd like your perspective.'

'Why bring me all the way there? You could have interviewed me. You could have interviewed me by phone, come to that.'

'It's a pretty extensive list. Of questions.'

'Regarding what? The case is closed. Isn't it? There's not some question still of Rzhevsky's guilt?'

'No, that's holding. It's more about, um, methods. Questions about his data, all the information he collected on the people he killed.'

'I don't know what more I can add to that. We already tried it, that day at the morgue.' Winner may have said he'd give Toru time to get it out, but he's got that look, staring at Toru intently. 'This isn't about Rzhevsky at all. It's about Newtypes.'

'You're the expert. The only expert.'

'Not a willing one. Or doesn't that matter?'

'If you make them get a subpoena,' Toru tells his knees, 'they will.'

'For what?' Winner shoves to his feet. 'They'd have to file a suit. They haven't got a suit to file.'

'They can do it as part of the investigation into Rzhevsky's murders.'

Winner faces him, grim-faced, locked down the way he was in the beginning. Toru tries to meet his eyes, and can't.

'They want to verify Rzhevsky's observations about the Newtypes,' Winner says. 'They want me to come in and verify that it's all possible, that the experiments can produce people with these abilities. They want me to tell them how to do it. They want to create new Newtypes.'

'No,' Toru says. 'I don't think so.'

'Not yet?' Winner prods acidly. 'This is how it starts. They will.'

'Quatre, if you don't come voluntarily, they'll come get you.'

'Let them!'

'Then you'll be in contempt of an order of the court and they'll put you in prison.'

Winner dashes a hand through the air. 'They're not the first. That's always the reaction of agencies like Preventers-- imprison those who won't comply. Beat the information out of you, manipulate and twist until people can't bear up--'

'How many hours would it take? All they'd have to do is put you in a room with other people. One night? Two? The only reason you survived the hospital was because you were drugged by Rzhevsky. If you'd been at the normal range of your abilities, how fast would it have hurt you? Drove you crazy? Do you know even if it can kill you?'

'So instead I should contribute to your government's clandestine attempt to rebuild a programme that even a morally bankrupt murderer recognised as reprehensible?'

'You don't have an alternative.'

Winner shakes his head bitterly. 'Trowa was right.'

'We don't know that. All we know is that one way or the other, you're going to talk to Preventers. And that may be the end of it.'

There's a long, grim silence between them, then, broken only by the sound of thunder in the distance. Toru pulls at his cap again, but it's already soaked. He can feel damp dripping down his neck.

'I'll speak with my lawyer,' Winner says then. Toru nods. 'Well,' Winner begins, and never finishes. He thrusts his shoulders back. 'You're here. You might tell your cabbie to take off. Stay for supper and you can use the guest room tonight.'

'Are you sure?'

'I wouldn't say it if I weren't. Or would you rather I don't trust you?'

'No. I mean-- you know what I mean.' Toru stands. 'Quatre, I'm sorry.'

Winner nods tightly. 'I know.'

Their meal that night takes place in studious quiet. Winner is playing music-- not to block out the other patients, Toru is fairly sure, but to discourage casual conversation between the two of them. He'd talked for more than two hours with the lawyer, whoever that was, wherever they were-- Toru didn't know and Winner hadn't volunteered it. The food is good, at least, and there's plenty of it, roast beef with winter vegetables. Even wine, a full glass, which Winner serves him with a small, apologetic smile. Toru finds it a little sour, but mostly pleasant-tasting, and drinks it in tiny, careful sips.

'What does Barton do?' he asks, when Winner is down to just pushing a carrot across his plate, his chin propped on his hand.

Winner glances up. 'Your pardon?'

'Barton. Trowa. What's he do, in Paris?'

'He's an arms dealer.'

Toru blinks. 'Your pardon?'

Winner smiles, though it fades. 'During the war. We often took advantage of the flow of arms between legitimate and non-legitimate sources. There were whole months during the war when we used exclusively Oz-manufactured ammunition, bought from third or fourth or fifth party sales. Trowa's made it his business to get a lot of those arms out of trade. He buys them up and destroys them.'

'Why not just sell them back to the government?' Toru asks curiously, then shakes his head before Winner can answer. 'Never mind. I forgot who I was talking to.'

This time Winner's grin stays. 'You think I'm provincial. Liberal to the point of stupidity.'

'I don't,' he objects. 'Truly. I know you feel strongly about the, it, the current state of affairs. And given the news you had today, I can sort of understand, too, why you must feel that way. It probably does feel like they're out to get you.'

'You were raised inside the system,' Winner says. 'And I was raised to be suspicious of it.' He reaches for the wine bottle, and refills his glass. Toru tries to move his out of the way subtly, but Winner catches him at it and shakes his head. 'Not til you're older,' he says, and sits back with his glass twirling slowly in his hand. 'You needn't worry that I'm out to corrupt you.'

'I appreciate that, sir.'

'Oh, we're back to “sir”, are we.' Winner swallows his wine. 'I'll be going with you. To Brussels.'

Toru purses his lips. 'Okay. What's the rest of it?'

'It's not a blank cheque for Preventers. I have the right and I will take advantage of my right not to incriminate myself.'

'Incriminate? You're not the target of the criminal investigation, and anyway there's nothing criminal about being a Newtype.'

'But under laws passed by both the Alliance and the Romafeller Foundation, certain Resistance activities were indeed criminalised, and not all of those laws have been struck down. So long as they remain on the books, I will abstain from answering any questions which may implicate me in law-breaking.'

'And you and your lawyer think that the Newtype experiments fall under Resistance activities? Even though by your own admission Alliance and OZ and all sorts of other groups were conducting the same experiments, sometimes with the same people?'

Winner sets his wineglass down very precisely at the edge of his placemat. 'I will protect myself,' he says quietly. 'I want you to understand that. It's one thing, to cooperate in catching a man like Rzhevsky. He had to be stopped. But this is more than a step too far. This is an infringement on the only thing I've ever asked of your government, Toru, which is to be left alone. And you already know that, and you agree with me. That's why you came here. Not to persuade me, not to coax me into it. To warn me. So let's not pretend. Not with just us here. I think we've earned that with each other.'

'They'll find a way around a legal end-run.'

'Eventually. But stalling has its uses. By the time they feel they have to confront me on it, I'll have another stratagem.'

'I'll have to tell them you told me that.'

'That doesn't mean it won't still work.' Winner sips the last of his wine. 'So let me give you one more piece of advice, if that doesn't offend you. I think that you should think carefully before you hitch your career to me.'

Toru pushes his plate an inch across the mat, and stands. There's a large bookshelf, beside the hearth, and he reads the titles, lets himself think of nothing but literature for a long minute. _Acts of Power: Statecraft and Diplomacy. The Return of History and The End of Dreams. Ozone Diplomacy: New Directions in Safeguarding the Planet. Peace Be Upon You: Fourteen Centuries of Muslim, Christian, and Jewish Conflict and Cooperation. Business Solutions for the Global Poor Creating Social and Economic Value. Thinking In Time: The Use of History for Decision Makers._ Toru pulls the last off the shelf, flipping to the table of contents. 'Do you ever read anything for fun?' he asks.

'Somewhere I have a copy of _“There's Cake In My Future”_.'

Toru almost returns the book to the shelf, but stops himself. 'Can I borrow this?'

'Of course. I particularly like Chapter 10.'

'The thing is--' Toru turns. 'I don't have a career. I'm a junior agent. Out of thousands of junior agents. The only reason I've come to any notice at all is because Commander is a family friend and she listened to me about you, as a favour. And I can't rely on favours. I can't rely on you, either, because you're right about that. But don't think I don't already know it.' He crosses the rug back to Winner's chair at the table, and pulls a disc from his shirt pocket. 'Can I give you some advice?'

Winner touches his lips as if he's hiding the way they curve up. 'As you like.'

'You should listen to better music. It might improve your mood.' Toru holds up the disc with two fingers. 'This is meditation music. It will relax you. I like Vedic Tones and Native American Flutes. We'll practise. Starting tonight.'

Winner sucks in his cheeks. 'Shall we, then.'

'Yes. We shall indeed.'

This time Winner is definitely hiding his laugh. 'I think your career will be something to watch, young man,' he says. 'All right. We'll practise whatever it is you want to practise. Will that please you?'

'It's a start.' Toru pulls their coats from the hooks by the door. 'Dress warm. We're going to go see those hills of yours.'

Winner accepts his damp scarf. 'I'm behind you.'

 

**

 

'Quatre.'

'Mm.' The blond head rolls toward him, and that's about all Toru can see of Winner, between the big earphones and the bigger sunglasses, and the scarf that's wrapped up tight to his chin. The mouth turns down.

'Quatre, we're here,' Toru says. He shakes Winner gently by the shoulder. 'We need to de-bark the plane. I have a chair waiting for you. Think you can do it?'

'Mm.' Winner fumbles a hand up for his glasses. There are deep, bruised-looking shadows around his eyes. Even drugged to the gills it was a hard flight for him, trapped thousands of feet in the air with a plane full of people. His eyes are floating, pinpoint pupils struggling with the light. 'There's-- something--' He's slurring, mumbling, and Toru decides to just ignore it.

'Come on.' He heaves, and gets Winner to his feet. He's already let all the other passengers precede them, and the crew are getting anxious to have their plane back. He lets a steward help from the other side, manoeuvring Winner out into the aisle. 'Thanks. I can get him to the chair.'

'Something important,' Winner manages, and puts one stumbling foot in front of the other only when Toru drags him along. 'Forgot to tell you.'

'Can it wait until we're off the tarmac?' If they could have chartered an empty plane it might have been better, he thinks, even if there still would have been crew and pilots. It's debilitating, and a little embarrassing, in a way he can't quite pin down, but he ducks the passive gazes of the stewards and hauls Winner along. An attendant is waiting with a wheelchair just beyond the hatch. Winner's grimace of distaste is comically broad, on the strength of two sleeping pills, but he sits when Toru aims him at it, flumps back, gets one foot into the stirrup and lets Toru fix the other. 'I'll take it from here,' Toru tells the attendant, hangs his duffel from the handle, and whips Winner about in a smart circle with a strong push up the ramp.

'I've arranged for a car,' he tells Winner. It's the same plan from their first trip out of St John's, but it fills the silence. It was a long flight, just watching Winner sleep. 'We won't spend any more time in the airport than it takes to get through security. I promise.'

Winner is already more agitated. He rubs his temples, hunches down. 'Sorry. I'm sorry. It's--'

'I know.' He reaches down to squeeze Winner's shoulder. 'We'll hurry.'

The end of the ramp. The most he'd been able to do for Winner was get tickets for a red-eye, so at least Brussel Nationaal isn't at full bustle. There's a few sleepy morning passengers sitting in small clumps in the waiting lounges, a few vendors setting out display cases of breakfast pastry and coffee, but it's quiet. Toru nods at the staff by the desk and waggles his badge, and they point him toward a service corridor. Smoother than the first time, when he'd still been learning. If they ever end out doing this again, they'll be pros.

He's not looking for it, so he only sees it when it's suddenly in front of him. Two men, one standing aggressively smack in his path. Trowa Barton.

Toru slows. Winner stirs in his chair, and says, 'I remembered the important thing.'

'Damn it, Quatre.'

Barton is coming toward them. Toru takes a few deep breaths. 'We need to keep moving,' he decides, and gets them rolling again. If they're going to have a confrontation, he's not going to let it happen in full view of an airport full of strangers. He stays on a crash course with Barton until they're only a few feet from each other, and then he diverts the chair sharply left. Barton swings around, scowling, and has to follow him. Toru blasts through the service door, and lets it fall almost closed before Barton puts on a jot of speed and catches it.

'Listen, kid,' Barton starts.

'Agent.' Toru refuses to slow, but he hears Barton coming after him, boots rapping on the tile. The other man isn't as quick as they are, and Barton has to wait for him. 'I don't have authorisation for your presence, Mr Barton.'

'Because Preventers consistently refuses to acknowledge our legal relationship. I'm his advocate and I have every possible right to be present during any interaction you have with him.' Barton puts on a burst of speed and gets in front of him. 'Stop. Will you stop.'

Toru does, but only because he'd have to hit Barton to get past him, and the regs are pretty clear on non-violent confrontation. Anyway, Barton ignores him as soon as the chair is still, going into a crouch at Winner's knees, one hand sliding over Winner's wrist to check his pulse, the other going under his chin to check his reaction.

'Estazolam?' Barton asks finally.

Toru inclines his head. 'He had a standing prescription.'

'How long ago did he take it?'

'An hour before take-off in St John's and four hours ago while we were over the Atlantic.'

'Did he eat anything?' Barton pulls his bag from his shoulder and removes a thermos from a side pocket. 'Quat. It's me. I brought a tomato juice. Take a few sips for me.'

Toru reaches down to intercept it. 'Sir--'

'He'll be sick.' Barton curls Winner's fingers around the thermos, and helps him lift it. 'So you can let him have the juice or you can take him to a hospital for dehydration and low blood sugar.' He shoves to his feet. 'If we're going to fight, let's get it over with, so we can get him out of here.'

'We're not going to fight.' Toru puts his jaws tight together, though, and thinks carefully about exactly how to word himself. 'Did Quatre call you?'

'His lawyer did.'

'Who is this.' Toru turns, and finds Barton's companion hovering several metres back. When Barton beckons, the man comes nearer. Not anyone Toru recognises from Winner's file, so it's not a relative, although he thinks that for a moment, when he sees blond hair. But it's bottle blond, with dark roots at the scalp. He looks at the hand that's extended tentatively toward him, and shakes it only with deep reservations for the entire adventure.

'Ewin MacLeod,' the blond says. 'I'm Trowa's partner.'

Ah. One mystery solved. 'Agent Craft, Preventers,' Toru says, and lets him go. 'Mr Barton, I may be able to get you in, but I won't be able to get him in.'

'I understand that.' Barton presses his lips together. 'We'll get a hotel. On our own expense. But you will not keep me away from him. Do you understand _that_?'

'I think I'm starting to get a sense of your seriousness.' Toru opens his duffel, and pulls out a pad of paper. 'This is where we have him staying. It's as far out of town as I could get him on the government rate. I'll be driving him most of the time. You can reach me at this number. I will ask, but I do not guarantee, if I can get you a guest pass to Headquarters. If I do manage to get a pass, then you will observe the restrictions we place on your movements. You will be escorted everywhere in Preventers-owned space. You will not be in the room when any sensitive or case-related matter is discussed. You will not have access to any mobile devices, any weapons, note paper or writing utensils. If necessary, you will sit in the cafeteria until an agent comes for you, and you will be polite about it, because being rude will get you tossed out and your pass revoked. Clear?'

Barton plucks the paper out of Toru's fingers. 'Clear,' he says coolly.

Toru inclines his head. 'Then let's get moving.'

 

**

 

The hotel is nice, actually, a small family-owned place with a house and two detached cottages. The cottages are why Toru picked it, private and set back a little, at least, from the main property, and better yet they are forty-six feet back from the road, right at the edge of Winner's sensitivity to people, and that's as good as it's going to get while they're still in Brussels city limits.

Winner goes straight to the bed and sprawls. Toru puts his little suitcase on the rack, hangs his suit carrier in the closet, and brings him one of the bottled waters sitting on the kitchenette counter. 'Drink up,' he says. 'We should flush you out.'

Winner flops out a hand. Toru unscrews the bottle cap for him, and Winner sips with a grimace. 'I think that gets worse every time,' he mutters, and pulls a pillow over his head.

'I'm sorry.' Toru gets a bottle for himself, and stands in the kitchenette rolling it between his palms. 'I am,' he says then. 'For all of this trouble. I don't think they really understand how hard it is on you. That it's not just a little inconvenience and a hop over the ocean.'

'How can they understand? It's not a thing that makes sense.' Toru opens his mouth, but Winner beats him to it, sitting up obediently to drink his water. Toru smiles briefly. He cracks his own water open and drinks half the bottle.

'Where do you live?'

'Barracks,' Toru answers. 'About twenty miles from here.'

'Not a flat? Young men should have their own space.'

'That's mostly married agents.' He's unsettled, he decides. Maybe the long flight. He doesn't like flying, not really. Both his parents were pilots and Toru gets vertigo. Or maybe just hungry. He digs through the welcome basket on the counter, but it's all things like tea bags and little chocolate biscuits. They'll all need a real meal soon. 'How's your head? You need a pill?'

'You don't even like this place, do you. Brussels. You don't feel any affection for it.'

'It's just a city. I don't see a lot of it-- I'm working most of the time.'

'Not all of the time. You don't want to travel? See plays, museums. Go out drinking with friends.'

'I guess I don't have a lot of friends here.'

'Anywhere.'

'I have Preventers, and that's all I've ever wanted.' Toru twitches the lace curtain over the kitchenette window, and seats himself on a bar stool. 'I'll figure the rest out when I have time.'

'Time has a way of disappearing if you're not watching it closely.' Winner's head turns. 'They're coming. They got a room.'

Lucky for them it's not the tourist season yet. 'So that's his partner. He doesn't look like an arms dealer. Barton looks like a gun runner.'

'Ewin's not an arms dealer; he's a sculptor. He has a show in Paris right now.'

'What?'

Winner laughs suddenly, rustily. 'That's why you never twigged about it. I wondered. Romantic partner, Toru. Life partner. Not business partner.'

'Oh.' His face heats. Toru rubs his warm ears. 'No, I... sorry. Sorry.' He's done stupid things before, but that seems incredibly obvious, now that he thinks about it. 'But-- you?'

'As I said. We're a long time over, and London just reminded us both of that.' Winner swings his legs to the floor. 'Don't be embarrassed. Though I do wonder if there's not a few holes in your education.'

'Maybe there's something to that.' Winner points, just a second before the knock that shakes the door. One sharp, impatient rap. Toru rolls his eyes, and goes to open it.

Barton brushes past him, but the sculptor at least pauses to wipe his feet on the door mat, and offers a hand again. 'Agent,' he says.

'Hello.' Toru presses his palm quickly. 'Quatre says you got a room.'

'He did.' MacLeod's eyes turn past Toru, to Winner's sleeping area. 'Yes. The place seems lovely. We haven't been up to the room yet.'

Not exactly a shock. Barton is playing doctor again, taking temperatures, doling out pills from Winner's bag.

'You need help with your bags?' Toru asks MacLeod. 'I can help you carry.'

The man's pierced eyebrow climbs. 'You wouldn't mind? It's late. If you wanted to take off?'

'I'll be headed to the office shortly. I don't mind.' He looks, but the other two are absorbed in a conversation that seems to be mostly irritation and edgy twitching. Better to leave them to it.

'Quatre said you're an artist,' Toru offers, while they fetch two large suitcases from the boot of Barton's rental car. 'Sounds interesting. There must be a lot of freedom in that.'

'Sometimes a little too much. I work on commission.' MacLeod flashes a reasonably engaging smile. 'But Preventers. Wow. That takes a lot of dedication.'

Not if you're a friendless, uncultured workaholic, apparently. Maybe Barton's not the only one who's irritated and twitchy. Toru rolls his head around on a tight, sore neck, and promises himself a chance to just sit quietly in his car before he goes in to work. 'Yeah,' Toru answers him briefly, and holds the hotel door so the other man can pass with the bags.

It may not be tourist season, but the room is up stairs and down a long, creaky hall, and opens with an old-fashioned key, all conditions that point to a desire to be well out of the way. Toru gives the case he's carrying a toss onto the bed-- one bed, he notices, and then tries not to notice. MacLeod starts unzipping and unpacking, sheds his thick winter coat onto a frilly settee under the window. They have a welcome basket too, with a bottle of champagne sweating in a cold bucket, and that's a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. Toru shuffles on his feet. This room looks like a couple's suite, the kind of outing people must get for anniversaries, romantic holidays. And then he remembers that Winner is not really all that far away, and he carefully doesn't think about whether MacLeod and Barton are in Brussels for the same reasons. Winner may find that out for himself, one way or another, but Toru doesn't want to be the one to broadcast it with a careless brainwave.

'Please tell Mr Barton that he'll have to get himself to and from Headquarters,' Toru says then. 'I can't drive him in the company car. Quatre and I will be leaving here at eight.'

'Mind if I ask how long you expect it all to take? Trowa thought it might be a week. I was hoping rather less.'

'Quatre mentioned you have a show going on.'

'I don't need to be there every day, but longer than a week gets dicey.' MacLeod pokes his head into the bath, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his loose blue jeans. 'Still, I hate to leave him here alone, if you think it'll go on.'

That has ominous tones, at least to Toru. 'I wish I could say,' he answered, retreating to toneless professionalism. 'We may know better by tomorrow.'

'Any information would be good. Put Trowa's mind at ease.' Another one of those smiles, which maybe pass as an artist's version of professionalism, or at least salesmanship; because Toru has the distinct feeling MacLeod is fishing for something, and, whatever it is, Toru hasn't supplied it yet. 'Are you the same agent who looked after Quatre in London?' MacLeod asks then. 'Trowa said you were great with him. I can see that you are.'

'Yes,' Toru acknowledges cautiously. He'll believe a lot of things, but not that Barton had anything polite to say about him. 'Quatre makes it easy. Well-- not easy. But easy to be nice to him. He's nice, I mean. Mostly.'

The smile widens into a grin. 'I think I know what you mean,' MacLeod says, and taps a finger along his nose, like they've just shared a secret. 'He's smarter than I am. Than most people, I think. I just try to keep up. Still, it's terrible for him there. And here. It's sad, a mind like that, locked away. And I never mistake it for easy on him or anyone around him.'

'No.' Toru chews the inside of his cheek, for a second, and does a little fishing of his own. 'It's good of you. To come out here with Mr Barton. Big disruption of your life. Lives.'

'The only hurdle we've ever had together is over in that cottage,' MacLeod says, and Toru doesn't know if it's candour or bitterness, but he decides he doesn't believe that smile, suddenly, and doesn't like the part MacLeod is playing, because it looks a lot more like jealousy than helpfulness, coming all this way just to watch Barton take care of Winner. But then MacLeod is ducking his head, scratching the back of his neck, and sighing deeply. 'I had a brother,' he says. 'Batten Disease. It's terrible. Strikes healthy kids, and kills them slowly, horribly. I know what it is to be that devoted to someone who suffers, and how hard it is to step back and accept you can't really help. I admire Trowa. I know Quatre does. And I know Quatre tries hard to stop him doing this. But it's a losing battle. Until Trowa sees it for himself, this kind of thing-- it won't ever stop.'

Lord. Not jealousy. Or not the kind Toru imagined. 'I'm sorry,' he replies finally. 'I-- I hope that this trip doesn't-- make anything worse. For any of you.'

There's the smile again. MacLeod shrugs his shoulders. 'I appreciate that,' he answers diplomatically. 'Please let us know if there's anything we need to do, or not do. We'll keep out of your hair as much as possible.'

Toru nods. 'Good night,' he says, and leaves it at that, because there isn't really anything else he can say.

'Good night, Agent.'

He's not the only one who's been signing off for the evening. He passes Barton in the hotel lobby. Barton looks drawn, he thinks, and his face is grim and weary. He straightens when he notices Toru, and then he just looks cold. Toru nods his head and passes without comment.

He knocks at the cottage door, before remembering that Winner will know he's there, so he lets himself in without waiting for it. 'Just checking if you need anything before I go,' he calls, softening his voice when he sees the overhead light is off, and just the lamp by the bed lights the little space.

Winner has settled on the easy chair across from the unlit hearth, now, and waves him near when Toru ventures in. 'I think the time zones have me off,' he confesses. 'Or the drugs. I'm not sleepy.'

'Me, either.'

Winner props his chin on his fist. 'You could stay here. Instead of driving to the barracks just to come back in a few hours. I wouldn't mind, and I won't bother you.' He waves the fingers of his other hand, a little vee of promise. 'I swear I don't snore.'

'I think I do, though.'

Winner chuckles softly. 'That's all right, since you're not sleepy. Sit down, though.' Toru unbelts his coat, and drapes it on the couch. 'Wait,' Winner adds. 'While you're still standing. Can you get that small bag?'

Toru lifts the small, plane-carry duffel from the kitchenette counter. 'This one?'

'Careful with that,' Winner says. He takes it into his lap. 'Don't break it before I can give it to you.'

'Give me what?'

'Ah.' Winner opens a side pocket, and removes a small package wrapped in white paper. He extends it. 'I have a gift for you.'

'A gift?' Toru takes it slowly. 'I'm not-- I don't think I can. The rules.'

'I won't tell if you don't. But if it makes you feel better, I checked how much I can spend. We came in ninety cents short.'

Toru shucks the paper without arguing about it. Glass container. He flips it upright. 'Syrup?'

'Canadian maple,' Winner says. 'Last spring's. And a nanaimo bar. It's a local thing. Custard and chocolate.'

'Did you hit the gift shop on the way out of Canada?' Toru sniffs the wax seal on the syrup. It does smell good. 'Trying to fatten me up.'

'Just bribe you.'

'Bribe me?' Toru pauses in the act of ripping the foil on the nanaimo bar. 'Why?'

'Treats for your patience. Yours seems limitless.' Winner plays with the zip on his bag, flipping the pull-tab back and forth. 'I know it makes you uncomfortable. Trowa and I. Trowa and Ewin. Men together.'

Toru rubs at an ear that threatens to blush. 'It's not... It's not uncomfortable, exactly. I just-- I've never known any-- people like you.'

'Everyone knows someone like me, whether they realise it or not.' Winner drops his head back to the chair cushions. 'My father had many reasons to be disappointed in me. This was high on his list for years. I think he was almost relieved when we had the war to fight about instead.'

'I'm sure he wasn't really disappointed.'

'I don't mean to sound catty. My father was a good man. But I wasn't the son he wanted, and I wish we'd had time to reconcile that. He died, when I was fifteen.' Winner is quiet for a long minute, and Toru doesn't interrupt him. 'Forgive me,' Winner murmurs then. 'My head is in the past lately. I don't know what's brought it on.'

'You don't have to explain. Or apologise. I know Preventers have made things harder on you. I hope that some of it is good. But I know it isn't all good.'

'We'll know in a few days.' Winner hugs the duffel loosely to his chest. 'Will you be there? For these questions.'

'I think so. I'm on the roster for formal escort.'

'Babyminder.'

'I don't look at it that way. You shouldn't.'

Winner accepts that with the ghost of a smile. 'Don't let Trowa get himself in trouble at your offices. He doesn't mean to push.'

'Oh, really?'

'All right.' Now the smile is real. 'But don't let them throw him in the brig or anything. He shouldn't be punished for caring.'

'There's no prison time for being pushy.' Toru finds a little lace-edged pillow to prop behind his head. 'Quatre? Can I ask you something? Since we're-- well, sort of. Talking about the past.'

'Ask away.'

'The war. The Gundam Pilots. What was it like?'

Winner inhales slowly, deeply. 'What was it like,' he repeats. 'It was a long time ago.'

'I know. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.'

'Wouldn't you be more interested in Oz? Your parents were both officers.'

'And they both eventually went to the Resistance.'

'There were shades and then some to the Resistance. We had as many factions as our enemies did. More, probably. It was all about competing agendas, those days. The Alliance was an entrenched power, you have to understand that, to understand the rest of it. You couldn't call it peace, but there was no real warfare, not by the 190s. The occasional outbreak of violent rebellion. Very minor reform movements, appeasement bills, plasters on a fleshwound.' Winner rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger, scrapes a palm over his jaw. 'Even Pacifists like my father were past the point of open defiance. We got on as best we could, because outright war is an expensive venture. Deeply expensive. Dekim Barton had immense wealth, billions in cold cash and more in assets, and he invested heavily in defence. My family's money was all in resources-- mines, mostly, metals needed for deep space exploration, for computers, for technology. Dekim Barton, though, he was manufacturing. The Resistance would still be scrabbling around planting the occasional home-made explosive if Dekim Barton hadn't come along with his factories. They don't teach that, do they. The machinery of it all. A handful of people willing to die for a cause, and the bankers who made it possible.'

'No,' Toru says. 'They don't teach it like that.'

'I saw tiny slices of it,' Winner tells him. 'Such tiny slices. I was a child. Much younger than you. I suppose it should matter more to me, that they targeted children. But it's so black and white for me. I suppose because I was so young when they approached me. If we wanted freedom we had to take it. I knew there wasn't broad support for it, I could see that for myself in the news, in the polls. But freedom matters. It matters even when people forget how to fight for it. It matters the most when people forget how to fight for it. And because the Gundams existed we became symbols. We wanted to be symbols. Rally points. Banners for people who wouldn't sit passively while military police raided our homes, watched our every move with drones and computer surveillance, while they criminalised speech and thought and jailed even peaceful dissenters. To this day--'

Toru wets his lips. 'What? To this day, what?'

'I don't know,' Winner says. 'I don't know so much of it. And what I think I know I question. It was a war, Toru. War is terrible, and in many ways we made it worse than it might have been. Oz was the unknown. We thought we were going to war on the Alliance, and Oz came out of no-where, and we never had enough intelligence to move on them as we ought to have done. But OZ fell apart from the inside. Too many allies of expediency. They needed money too, you see. That's why Treize Khushrenada invited in Romafeller. You need money to fight a war, and if you want to win then you need more money than anyone else. But they didn't like his message. They didn't like his philosophy. They wanted a new world order, and they threw him off to get it. And somehow in the mix of all that White Fang slipped through. They'd been just another radical shout, until the rest of us were weakened by the infighting and they found the space to squeeze through.'

'And they bought my father.'

'No-one bought your father,' Winner tells him quietly. 'Don't ever think that. At the risk of his own life and the lives of his friends he refused to bow to Romafeller. We knew that much. And he did aid the cause of the Resistance, as Milliardo Peacecraft, returned from the dead. But he went to White Fang, yes. And they captured the Libra.'

'They used it on Earth. He gave the order.' Toru turns the maple syrup, to watch the golden wash against the glass. 'It could have been a holocaust. An extinction event.'

'But it wasn't. And it wasn't entirely him who did it. He was being pushed by the leadership. And don't discount Zero and Epyon. Those were grave mistakes. I know better than any man how very dangerous they were.'

'Do you regret it?' Toru asks him. 'Building Zero. They were just plans, until you built it. Used it.'

'I regret it every day,' Winner says simply. 'I always knew I would bring death with me when I joined the Resistance. But not so much innocent death. What I did was terrible. And so was what your father did. But there were reasons, and there were others who encouraged us, who shared that responsibility. Barton gave me those plans. They were designed by scientists who knew they would interact with Newtypes, and who knew the consequences might be uncontrollable. Zero was captured by Oz and they tested it again and again and again, and they built it into an army of mobile dolls. And Treize Khushrenada built it into a Gundam, too. We were altering the very reality of war. Removing the humanity from the act of warfare, but never from the dying. None of us realised it until it was far too late.'

'That's why you destroyed the Gundams? People have been searching for the site for years, you know. I heard there's even a secret task force. Trying to find the parts.'

'There's nothing left to find,' Winner says, and there's steel in that statement of fact. As unmoveable as Gundamium. 'They can search til the end of time. There's no need for Gundams anymore. If Allah is merciful, there never will be again.'

Toru sits forward with his elbows on his knees, rolling the maple syrup between his hands, thinking and not-thinking. 'Tomorrow,' he says at last. 'This morning, I mean. What they're going to ask you.'

Winner is already shaking his head. 'It's not related. Not like you're thinking. There's no straight line between ending one war and preventing another that's not even an inkling. Who the hell is left to resist? They're all in exile.'

'There's always risk,' Toru argues. 'Don't tell me it's not fragile out there. People fight because they can, you just said that yourself. Because they're rich enough or they want more power or because they think like you do, that the government is out to get them and the only option is strapping a bomb to a bus. And don't tell me it's not about preventing war. Ivan Rzhevsky was still out there cleaning up after the last one. Every Newtype he killed was a potential soldier. A potential weapon.'

'And I will not give that weapon to Preventers for the asking.'

'Then give it to us for the need. So we know what we might find ourselves fighting. You just said the Gundams made the damage worse. What if there'd been people who'd known how to stop you?'

'There were! Oz built Gundams as fast as they could. The escalation is the point, Toru.' Winner waves a hand in agitation. 'Whenever one side has a weapon the other side thinks it has to go out and build a bigger one. A thousand bigger ones. That's all war really is. And Rzhevsky's already done Preventers the biggest favour a madman can do. He's killed all your potential weapons. If Preventers will just let the dead alone, it's a problem that solves itself.'

'They're not going to accept that.'

'And neither do you. That's what you're thinking. That I'm withholding vital information just to be petty.'

'I don't think you're exactly above it.'

That's too far. He knows it as soon as it's out of his mouth, that he's gone too far, too low. Winner is hurt and angry, and he didn't deserve that, not from Toru. It'll be bad enough coming from people who don't trust Winner, who don't believe him.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'You know I'm sorry.'

Winner swallows, a faint sound, a movement of his throat in the dim light. 'I know.'

Toru scrapes his teeth over his lower lip, makes himself breathe. 'We should-- we should practise your meditation. It will help. For when we're in the city.'

Winner nods stiffly. 'All right. I'll... just wash first. Please excuse me.'

'Yeah.'

Winner rises, and steps around him, even, measured paces to the bath. He shuts the door behind him. Toru blows out a deep breath, and taps his forehead with the broad hard base of the syrup. 'Jackass,' he tells himself. 'Idiot.'

He should have left. One day he'll listen to his instincts before they land him in trouble.


	8. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sally touches her dossier again, and closes it. 'You made a choice, Quatre. You could have waited for a subpoena. You could have chosen prison. You didn't. You came here. And I think the reason you chose to do so is that you still want to be here. Making a difference. And until I see evidence to the contrary, I believe that about Heero Yuy, too.'_

'Mr Winner, I can take your coat,' Micheko says.

'Thank you. It's good to see you again.'

'Same to you, sir.' Micheko folds Winner's overcoat at her elbow. 'They're expecting you inside. Tea?'

'Milk and sugar, please.'

'Right away. Anything for you, Toru?'

'You don't have to get me anything,' he protests, uncomfortable with the notion of her fetching for him. Her eyes are sly behind a mask of professionalism, and she doesn't quite wink, he thinks. Maybe.

'Back in a jiff,' she says, and leaves them standing in the lobby.

'Only the one date?' Winner asks him absently.

'What?'

'She's waiting on you.'

'Wait-- with the tea?'

Winner regards him patiently. 'I may not be a paragon of romantic intuition, but take my word for it. She's waiting on you. And it is a test, and there is a deadline. Ask her out. Walks under the stars are nice for starters. Find a flower vendor. Spontaneous flowers is very nice.'

Toru tries to clear his head with a shake. It doesn't really help. 'I don't-- think that I understand.'

'I'm partial to bridges, personally. Are there any nice bridges in Brussels? Don't underestimate a cliché.' Winner half-turns, and puffs out a soft sigh. 'They're coming.'

No more warning than that. One of the tall wooden doors opens, swinging wide on Commander Po. She smiles at Toru, and keeps it in place as she inclines her head to Winner. 'Quatre,' she says, and even sounds congenial. 'Thanks for making the trip.'

Winner only nods, allowing that to pass quietly. Sally holds the door, and Toru halts, just at the inside hallway. He presses his thumb to the electronic panel beside the badge swipe. When it accepts his print, he taps the Security Designation up to Top Secret.

It's one of the nicer conference rooms, reserved for important guests, for the Director's private briefings. Powerful people sit in this room, dignitaries, diplomats like his Aunt Relena. And now Gundam Pilots. There are crystal water glasses with individual carafes, each sweating gently on marble coasters. Leather chairs that whisper, not creak, when they sit. The pale orange glow-lamps is easier on the eyes than the fluorescents outside. The glossy tabletop is embedded with touch-screen computers, all loaded with Ivan Rzhevsky's grisly case file.

Winner sits centre, where the shallow arc of the table bulges out. Toru doesn't sit at the table at all, but takes a chair against the dark olive wallpaper, beneath the framed photographs of the President and Vice President. Sally stands to the side in whispered conversation with her Deputy, grim-faced Kirpal Bhudraja. They've got Dawes, too, and Ricciardi, who've spent the most time with Rzhevsky, filling out the details of their case, building that rapport they're always supposed to have. Gathering intelligence. Intelligence they're going to use against Winner now.

Verify, Toru thinks to himself, very deliberately. Winner's just verifying their intelligence. That's all.

It's a full room. Fuller when Micheko arrives, carrying a tray of mugs. Sally, as senior officer, gets first serving, and then Bhudraja, but Winner gets next, a tall mug with a biscuit set across the rim. Winner smiles at Micheko, but it's strained. Toru can hear his music from here. The Velvet Underground. It's not enough. Toru can see that from where he's sitting. The bones in Winner's hands stand out white, from the grip of his fists. Toru looks away.

'I think we're ready to get started,' Sally says then. Bhudraja leaves, for all the good that does. Winner's starting to shake, just a brief shiver of his shoulders. Micheko leaves with the empty tray. Toru hesitates at his chair, but Sally shakes her head at him, and he sits. Sally sits, too, taking the opposite side of the table from Winner, one chair up. Dawes and Ricciardi go to the right. No-one sits across from Winner. He's alone in a vee of space, straight-backed, level-shouldered, but alone.

'Recording,' Sally notes, touching the screen before her. 'With your agreement, Quatre. We'll transcribe it later for the file, but it's easier than screening a note-taker.'

'Of course,' Winner answers.

'All right.' She folds her hands. 'Can we begin at the beginning? We think we have the timeline of Rzhevsky's kill spree. What we're looking to do over the next few days is to unpack fact from fiction.'

'You know he told the truth.' Winner reaches for his tea, shifts his biscuit to the napkin. He traces the rim of the cup. 'I've already told you that much.'

'We know he believed what he recorded about his victims. That's not the same thing as knowing the truth.'

'I didn't know them. I don't know the truth.'

'But you know what's possible. You know the history. The programme.'

'Ah. The programme.' Winner circles his fingers around the cup decisively, but then doesn't lift it. 'Let's start with that. I'm sure Agent Craft has informed you. I will be invoking my right not to incriminate myself.'

'Yes. Agent Craft has passed that on. And I want to assure you, personally, that we're not fishing for any past criminal behaviour. If it came to that, I'm as guilty as you are.' Sally shows a dimple in a grin. 'We have one aim. Ivan Rzhevsky. That's it.'

Winner finally takes his first sip. 'I want a grant of immunity. In writing. For myself and for Trowa Barton.'

That earns a sharp pause. 'Immunity,' Sally repeats slowly.

Toru breathes out slowly. He'd known Winner would be cooking up something big. Protect myself, Winner had promised him, and that was a good opening gambit.

'Yes.' Winner sips again. 'In addition to, and legally acknowledging the overlap, with the official amnesty that was granted to all known and unknown Resistance members. To all members of the White Fang faction that fought at Libra. To all members of the Order of the Zodiac and of the Alliance military forces and to the Treize Faction. At one time or another the Gundam Pilots allied with each of those, even if only for minutes. I want it on paper, and I want immunity for any activity connected to any of those factions, to _their_ criminal activities, and any enterprise which resulted from their criminal culpability.'

Sally's face has gone tight. Dawes looks sidelong at Toru, and he avoids the agent's gaze.

'That's a tall order,' Sally says eventually. 'I'll have to speak to our in-house counsel. To the President's executive counsel.'

Winner nods. 'Yes. I expect you will.'

She starts to stand, then sits again. 'I'm surprised. That's a little nakedly obvious, even for you.'

'I thought we were here to do away with secrets.' Winner meets her eyes. 'I'm happy to pay for my own accommodation while we wait for the official answer. To avoid the appearance that I am preying on your generosity.'

'Why don't we hold on any grand gestures.' Sally does stand then. 'Any other surprises to spring on me?'

'I think we're good for the moment.'

Just like that, the room is empty again. Well, not empty. But Dawes and Ricciardi go when their Director does, and Sally leaves with a mobile phone at her ear as soon as she's past the TS sensor. Toru rubs his forehead, checks his watch. Barely ten minutes. As opening gambits go, he's seen tenser, but not better played.

'You know they'll come back here determined to wipe you out,' he tells Winner.

Winner swivels his chair to face them. He nods. 'I know.'

'It didn't have to be hostile. You saw her. She was willing to work with you.'

'She was willing to keep up the facade. Don't pretend it was real. I know that, too.'

'Do you?' Toru thrusts himself to his feet, to prowl the edge of the room. 'Do you know that for sure, or did you come in here determined to do it and read what you wanted to read off her? I already told you that you're not the target. Even if you'd just stuck to the plan and invoked your rights, you could have told us something, any little thing to keep it friendly.'

'I could have. And I would have lost ground I may need, later. Go in hard and back down only when there's advantage to be had.' Winner's lips turn up. 'Or a hell of a lot of Ozzies on your ass-end.'

'You antagonise them, Quatre, they're going to come down on you. Or what if they come through on immunity? You'd have to answer their questions!'

'They won't. Amnesty was one thing, in the wake of the war, but it's been the biggest regret of every administration since the Pacifists. President Damana will laugh them out of his office for even asking.'

'Then what if they decide to arrest you instead? You gave them a pretty wide net to throw. If they can prove you profited in any way from your alliance with any faction from the war, they can arrest you.'

'They can arrest me. They won't be able to hold me. The only profit I made from the war came from that amnesty. It restored my rights to my family's money. And they can hardly revoke amnesty for one without opening a floodgate.' Winner retrieves his tea, but the mug just turns in his hands, once around, twice around, three times. 'They'll find their end-run. We'll play a little longer. But both sides will bleed for it.'

 

**

 

They go home at half five, without ever seeing Sally again.

Barton is waiting for them in the front lobby, standing in front of the full-wall display of agents killed in action. There's more than five hundred names on that wall, framed pictures of men and women who've died in twenty-one years of service. There's no mention at all of the Preventers who fought in action in the Haddad Rebellion and earned exile for it. Their names aren't even in the rolls anymore.

Barton turns to watch them leave the lifts, and lifts his chin to Toru, an almost-greeting that Toru returns in kind. Then Barton commences ignoring him. 'Did it work?' he asks Winner.

'For the moment,' Winner answers, his shoulders rising and falling. 'We'll know more tomorrow.'

'Yeah.' When Winner is near enough, Barton loops a long arm over his shoulders. 'Let's eat. You'll feel better.'

'I feel fine.'

'Then why don't you look it?' Barton's eyes slide over Toru's. 'You know a quiet place?'

A quiet place. 'If you like pho,' he says. 'We can walk. Where's Mr-- um--'

'MacLeod,' Barton says. 'Ewin's occupied. He found an art museum.'

'No, you should ring him,' Winner murmurs. 'You can't leave the poor man alone for supper. I'm tired, anyway. Go eat together. Have a good night. I can get a cab.'

'I'll drive you,' Toru corrects him. 'Are you sure? You wouldn't rather eat something?'

'We can pick up food on the way back to the hotel.'

'No,' Winner says, still politely, but there's an edge to it, and Barton lapses immediately into silence. 'We know the next few days will be difficult. Let's store up some energy for it. Take it quietly.'

'Yeah,' Barton says, and walks away.

Toru blows out a big breath. 'Slick?' he mutters.

Winner shakes his head. 'He wouldn't do it without being pushed.'

'I don't know if you want to push him off the roof in the doing.' Toru watches Barton throw his visitor's badge into the return bin and plow through the turn-stile. A moment later, he's out through the big glass doors, disappearing around the bend. 'You seemed to get along better-- well-- better, last time.'

Winner's sigh is soft and sad. Toru regrets asking; he knows what the answer is, what the reason is, and he shouldn't have pushed.

'It's all right,' Winner says. 'And it's my fault. I have no idea what I'm doing or if I'm doing the right thing, even.' He removes his sunglasses from his coat pocket and slips them on. 'Go on home, Toru. I'll be fine in a cab. Tomorrow is a new day.'

'Good night,' Toru says, but Winner is already leaving.

 

 

'As you can imagine,' Sally begins, 'it's going to take us some time to run down a solid answer on the question of immunity.' She lays her Preventers jacket over the back of her chair and seats herself. 'We've put the enquiry to the President's office. We've explained that there's some urgency, but you know the bureaucratic machine.'

Winner nods. 'I appreciate the difficulty it's caused you.'

'I'd like to propose a compromise. While we're waiting on a decision, I did take the liberty of speaking to our own counsel, Vera Colben.' Sally nods to the woman sitting beside her. 'I think we've narrowed down the questions we wanted to ask to eliminate any potentially problematic topics.' She flips open her dossier, and turns it toward Winner. She pushes it across the table to Winner. 'If you'd like to forward this list to your lawyer, Toru can show you to a private room.'

Winner studies the pad. Toru is too far away to see it, but he sees how it's playing out. Winner won yesterday's round, but Sally's come out swinging. Her posture is relaxed, her tone is mild, but her eyes are too keen to mistake it for anything other than strategy.

It's a long silence before Winner returns the dossier. 'Reserving my right to interrupt,' he says.

Sally smiles. It doesn't look particularly warm or welcoming. 'Of course. Let's get started.'

'Ivan Rzhevsky,' Colben opens. 'When you were consulting on the case you discovered that his Newtype ability had something to do with locating other Newtypes.'

'Yes.'

Winner's head turns toward Dawes just before the agent speaks. Dawes and his partner Ricciardi are watching with what looks like genuine curiosity, but it's Dawes who picks up the question, leaning in. 'How did you arrive at that conclusion?' he asks. 'We've been working with Rzhevsky since we apprehended him and he still hasn't directly answered us on this one.'

'He may not know for certain.' Winner's fingers tap on the tabletop, then fold into a loose fist. 'To the first part-- it wasn't something I knew for certain, either. It was a theory. The Newtype Flash alerts us to the presence of another Newtype, but it's dependent on physical proximity. In short, he would have had to know where all his victims were in order to find them. And even in a city the size of London, he shouldn't have been able to find so many. It made some sense that he had a way of locating them. And since non-Newtypes have no way of distinguishing us from the rest of the population, it followed that he'd either invented some improbable new device, or that he simply had a natural advantage.'

'Tell us about the experiment at the pool.' Sally props her chin on her fist. 'Toru and Micheko dropped hints, but their report was brief. You were trying to achieve some kind of suspended consciousness?'

'Not precisely. Sensory deprivation, to state it accurately. As I said at the time, it wasn't successful.'

'I know. But tell us about the process. What were you trying to achieve?'

From his angle Toru can just see Winner purse his lips, maybe trying to read his Commander. For himself, Toru isn't sure if this is over the line, or just at the edge of it. Their experiment at the hotel pool in London was directly related to Rzhevsky's case, but they were only able to try because Winner had done it before as part of the Newtype training. In the Resistance, which makes it Resistance-related activity, which makes it part of that game of immunity Winner is playing. But on the other hand it's something Sally already knows about it and they can't pretend it didn't happen, since it's in the official case report. This is going to get thorny, Toru thinks, looking at Colben, sitting there blank-faced, observing. If she's thinking anything at all, only Winner knows it for sure.

'An elevated mental state,' Winner answers finally. 'Having to do with theta waves in the brain. I'm fuzzy on the science, but it was proposed that theta waves allow the brain to make intuitive leaps, possibly even activate new abilities. People who claim to be able to leave their bodies during meditation use alpha-theta biofeedback techniques. To the extent of my knowledge, the results are usually questionable, but there was a school of thought that Newtypes might be able to do more in a theta-state than average persons.'

'Without venturing any further into the exact extent of your knowledge,' Sally says, 'tell us what it was like for you. In this particular incidence.'

'Cold,' Winner tells her succinctly. 'The pool was cold and I was quite tired. As I said, it wasn't successful. At most, it gave me some time and quiet to think. Which is how I began to wonder what Rzhevsky might be doing to find his victims.'

'Your expertise was very helpful to us.' Sally plays with the screen of her dossier for a moment. 'Of course I say “expertise” with a spoonful of salt. I suppose it's the difference between experiencing it and watching it from the outside. Rzhevsky's kill-database might be the single largest collection of information on Newtypes. Unless we ever recover war records.'

'I have no comment to make about that,' Winner replies coolly.

'Just an observation,' the lawyer interjects. 'And a statement of fact.'

'Facts not in evidence,' Winner returns.

'We're not discussing evidence,' Sally says. 'My point is that we have to rely on you, because our other option is questionable. I know you have your reasons for keeping it close to the vest, but we don't have a choice if we want to understand what's happened.'

'There's nothing to understand.' Winner shakes his head. 'Rzhevsky is as mad as anyone who believes his mission will save the Earth. We've all felt that madness. And we've all learnt our error. He just never had the chance.'

'The chance?' Ricciardi draws Winner's attention with his sneer. 'Some people are born bad. And some Newtypes too. You think after forty-some-odd murders he was going to wake up one day repenting his evil ways?'

'I think it's possible. He kept those heads. He was troubled.'

'So troubled he tried to murder you to appease his guilty conscience.'

Winner doesn't answer. His look is level, but he doesn't answer.

Sally breaks the momentary lull. 'We're looking for Heero Yuy,' she says.

Winner's head snaps toward her. 'What?'

'Heero Yuy. When Rzhevsky admitted he didn't think Heero had been one of his victims, we instituted a formal locate order.'

Winner's fingers curl tightly. 'Heero's been missing for twenty years. Why the sudden urgency?'

'Admittedly, the trail is more than cold. We'd like to know that he's safe.'

'Why is that a concern of Preventers?'

'As much as it was a concern to us when you first tried to run. You're not just Newtypes. You're Gundam Pilots. And you're not just that, either. You have been and continue to be important to the function and the safety of the Sphere.'

'We're private citizens. If we choose not to participate in the function and safety of the Sphere, it's a personal choice.'

'But you don't choose that. Or you wouldn't be here.'

'Here?' Winner repeats, icily correct. 'At this moment? Perhaps you might rephrase that.'

'No, I think what I said is exactly true.' Sally touches her dossier again, and closes it. 'You made a choice, Quatre. You could have waited for a subpoena. You could have chosen prison. You didn't. You came here. And I think the reason you chose to do so is that you still want to be here. Making a difference. And until I see evidence to the contrary, I believe that about Heero Yuy, too.'

'You don't know that.'

'We may never know. But we will look for him. As we should have done years ago.'

Whatever Winner would have replied goes unsaid. The door is opening. It's Sally's deputy, Bhudraja. He enters with a nod to the room's occupants, and goes to Sally for a whispered conversation.

Toru's attention is all on Winner. He'd tensed, when Bhudraja came in. Now he's rubbing his head, slumping down in his chair. Too many people. Dawes and Ricciardi, Toru and Sally and the lawyer-- already more than a man with an iPod for armour can easily parse. Six is too much surprise. Stay calm, he urges Winner silently. You can do it, just for a moment.

But Bhudraja isn't leaving. Whatever his talk is with Sally, it ends with him taking a seat at the table.

'Heero was last sighted in Sanq,' Sally says, resuming their questions. 'Did you have any contact with him after he left the country?'

Winner's fingers are curled in his hair. He sucks in a breath. 'I'm-- sorry?' he says. 'What did you ask?'

'Did you have any contact with Heero after he left Sanq.'

'No. No, I--' Winner fumbles the iPod out of his coat pocket. He thumbs up the volume, until Toru can hear it five feet away. Pounding rock.

Bhudraja's eyes are locked on Winner's face. And Ricciardi is sitting forward, too, his elbows on the table. Dawes is chewing the inside of his cheek, and looks away when Toru tries to catch his eyes.

'No contact,' Winner is saying. He gathers himself with a deep inhale. 'Nor much before that. I thought after the Haddad Rebellion I might. But there was nothing.'

'What about Trowa? Do you know if Trowa ever heard from Heero?'

'No. I don't think so. Only I think he would have told me.'

'You don't find it odd? Especially after the Haddad Rebellion. But you don't think that he's dead?'

'I think that he's wherever he wants to be. And that he's uniquely capable of taking care after himself.'

'I can't argue with that.'

The door opens again. Toru stands, but it doesn't stop it from happening. He doesn't immediately recognise the man, wearing a suit, not a uniform. The man goes to the lawyer, Colben, and sits beside her.

'This isn't right,' Toru says.

Sally flicks her gaze to him. Toru swallows.

'Sit down, Agent,' she says.

Toru sits. Winner is slumped in his chair with both hands over his eyes.

'Quatre?' Sally taps the table, and Winner flinches. 'Quatre, do you need a moment?'

You can do it, Toru thinks at him. The way he'd done that day at the park, thinking hard at Winner until Winner could hear him. He doesn't know if it's going to make a difference, not with this many people here, crowding him. _You can do this. Just listen to me. Can you hear me?_

Winner breathes in raggedly. 'What-- what was your-- your question.'

_Your meditation exercises,_ Toru thinks at him. _Just listen to me. Think about darkness. You're in darkness, alone, and all you can hear is your own heartbeat. Think about your heartbeat._

'Do you need a moment?' Sally says again. She waits, and gets no answer. 'We were discussing Heero Yuy. How able he is to defend himself. Do you think his Newtype ability would protect him?'

'Maybe. I don't...'

'What is his Newtype ability?' Sally waits only a moment. 'If Rzhevsky never encountered him, then he wouldn't know, and he doesn't seem to have had any access to records that we don't, other than some kind of partial list of Newtypes from the Eve War era. And his guesses about their Newtype abilities, which may or may not be accurate. But you might know Heero's. If the two of you were going through this at the same time, you must have discussed it.'

'Toru.' Winner rolls his head, scrubs through his hair with his hand. 'Toru--'

'I'm here.' Toru goes to him, Sally's glare be damned. 'What can I do?'

'My head.'

'I know.' Toru crouches by his chair. 'Where are your migraine pills? Quatre? Look at me. Where are your pills?'

'Pocket.' Winner already looks drugged. His pupils are too large. And he's as pale as a ghost. Toru doesn't wait for more direction. He pats Winner's coat over both breast pockets, touches both hips, then turns to the overcoat on his chair. There. 'How many?'

'One. Two.'

Two. Toru shakes them out into his palm and grabs one of the crystal glasses from the table. While Winner is swallowing the tabs Toru takes the iPod and finds the file of meditation music. 'You need to concentrate on what I'm telling you. Do you hear me? Commander, we need to empty the room. Give him a minute.'

'Quatre, do you need a moment?'

Whether or not that was a sincere offer, there are obviously manoeuvres in motion. The door opens again. Micheko. She stops just inside, hesitating there. 'Commander?' she asks. 'You asked me to come in?'

Winner spasms out a hand. Toru tries to help, but Winner's as coordinated as a puppet, all disconnected limbs, face numb with shock. 'Quatre,' Toru says, catching him, then grabbing him tight around the waist as Winner stumbles away from the table, knocking back his chair. 'Commander, we need to empty the room or call an ambulance, but whichever you decide it needs to be now.'

'Mr Winner?' Micheko ventures near a few steps, then comes quickly. 'Let me help.'

'Get him on the floor before he falls.' The others are standing. Dawes is circling the table, coming toward them. The lawyer is on her mobile phone, and Sally is standing, just watching. Just watching.

Winner gags. Toru cushions him down to his knees as he vomits. 'Everyone out!' Micheko is shouting. 'Now! Vacate the room and call the medic!'

'Everyone out,' Sally echoes, with the hard edge of an order. Dawes rises from his crouch at Winner's left, but leaves his jacket in Toru's hands, to serve as a pillow as Toru eases him down. The lawyers are the first out the door, with Ricciardi at their heels. Sally is slowest, lingering at the door.

'Medic is on his way,' she says. 'I'll be outside. How-- how far outside do we need to be?'

'Maybe the far side of the lobby,' Micheko tells her. 'I'm going too. Will he be okay?'

'I think so. I hope so.' Toru spares a quick uneasy smile for her. 'Thanks. Bring the medic in as soon as he's here.'

When they're alone Winner lets out a shuddering groan of frustration. He curls to his side, dragging a shaking hand over his sweat-drenched brow. 'Shit,' he breathes.

Toru lets his bum hit the floor. 'I'm sorry.'

'Not you.' The hitch in his breathing is a sob, muffled by his hands. 'Thank you.'

He's never felt quite so undeserving of gratitude. It takes him a moment to work up an answer. 'What... What can I do to help?'

'Nothing. There's nothing.' Winner wipes his face. 'It just is. That's just what happens.'

That's what MacLeod had said. That there was nothing to be done to help. Toru gets the light, the most he can do about the headache, tries to make Winner more comfortable on the carpeted floor, with Dawes' borrowed jacket; he takes Winner's pulse, erratic and pounding. 'Would it-- would it be better if I left, too?' he asks finally. Winner doesn't reply, and Toru takes that silence for confirmation. He scrambles to his feet. 'The medic is coming. I promise. I'll-- I'll be outside.'

He makes sure the door closes at his back, and leans on it for a moment before remembering his intention to get out of range. The crowd is still milling about by the far doors. Micheko slides a hand along his elbow, when he joins them, and he takes quick comfort from that, her tacit approval.

'He's all right?' Dawes asks. 'Only I've never seen anyone just go down like that.'

'I don't know,' Toru answers shortly. 'He's had rough patches before. There isn't anything we can do to help except for the headache.'

Even Ricciardi seems reluctantly impressed with how spectacularly it blew up. 'He didn't do that back in London,' he says sullenly. 'There were plenty of people around then.'

'In London he'd been dosed with Rzhevsky's drugs,' Micheko returns sharply. 'The drug blocked out his mind-reading.'

'So, what, he just lied about everything he said Rzhevsky was thinking?'

'Rzhevsky's a Newtype too,' Dawes pointed out. 'Maybe it always works with other Newtypes more than with regular-- I mean, other people.'

Toru shakes his hands to rid them of the itchy pins-and-needles feeling. None of this talk is going to help Winner. This is not the argument Toru is interested in having. He wants to be doing, not talking, but there's nothing to do anything about. Nothing he can do to help.

Well. Maybe not nothing, after all. He catches Sally's eyes, and interrupts Ricciardi. 'Commander,' Tory says, 'may we speak?'

Sally's cheeks go hollow, like she's biting them from inside. 'Let's take a break,' she tells the group. 'We'll give it a few hours. I'll let everyone know when we're to resume. Craft, the hall, please.'

They stand still beside the lifts as the other agents filter past, emptying the corridor. Sally props her dossier on her hip, tapping the gold-lined edge with one finger.

'It was tactical,' she says then. 'If I had to explain myself to you, which I don't. He pushed us yesterday. We had to respond.'

'Having General Counsel in the room was tactical. You were testing his limits as a Newtype. Experimenting on him.'

'We were--' Sally checks herself, lowers her voice. 'I know you're angry.'

'I'm not angry; I'm disappointed.'

'Check the attitude, Agent.' Toru clenches his jaw. Sally looks away for a long minute, staring up the hall. 'You're too close to him,' she says at last. 'I didn't put you on him to take his side.'

'There aren't sides. He's done nothing wrong except say no to you.' Toru steps closer to her. 'You put me on him to keep him on a leash. I wish I could make him just give in. But I can't help him with that. All I can do to help is try to make you understand that he's fighting hard because he knows he's going to lose.'

Her shoulders fall. 'I don't have time for tea and sympathy, Toru.'

'Well... I do.' Toru scratches the back of his neck. 'And sympathy is a tactic, too. Give me the list. I'll go over the questions with him.'

'I can't believe I'm being pulled into this.' Sally flips open her dossier and taps her pad to call up the case file. 'I've transferred the file. Take tomorrow. Get him relaxed and get him talking. Maybe he'll be more cooperative in a few days.'

'Thank you. Commander.' Toru hauls in a deep breath. 'I'm going to get Barton.'

'That's all we need.'

'He's got a legal right. And if we don't tell him and he finds out anyway he'll blow his stack and get lawyers involved. Keeping him pacified is a tactic, too.'

Sally shakes her head, but it's not denial. 'Go do your duty, then,' she says. 'And don't lose sight of the fact that we are doing our duty, even when you don't like the methods. Got it?'

'Yes, sir.'

Toru has to go down three storeys and cross two departments before he reaches the cafeteria. He uses the time to rehearse what he's going to say, how to break the news in a way that won't initiate an epic eruption. How to explain it vaguely enough that Barton won't leap at the opportunity to assign blame, won't go on a rampage through the building, and won't say something so loud and so un-ignorable that he'll get tossed out on his ass and take Winner with him.

Most of that planning evaporates when he crosses the threshold. It's early hours in the day, still, and the cafeteria is mostly empty; he finds Barton with just a quick scan over the seating. There are two coffee cups in front of him, a crumpled paper and an empty paper plate. There are televisions playing the local and international news, there's a boxing game and a race as well, but Barton is staring out the windows over the cityscape. His face is still. Grim in its stillness.

Toru is still fifteen feet away when Barton's head swings around. Barton stands.

'I think he's okay,' Toru says, because that's the quick frantic rise of fear in Barton's eyes. It eases with a slump, and Barton sinks down again.

Toru pulls out the chair opposite him. He sits, puts his hands together on the tabletop. 'It was ugly for a minute,' Toru says, just putting it out there honestly. 'But it's over. We have a medic up there. He should be there by the time we get back. But I think it's just a headache, and I think it's over. As soon as the medic checks him out, I'll take him home.'

'Headache.' Barton hesitates. 'You gave him his pills?'

Toru nods. 'As soon as he asked.'

'If we're going back to the hotel I should let Ewin know so he can get a cab.' Barton pulls his mobile phone from a pocket and turns it on. 'Just a second.'

It's Toru's turn to hesitate. 'Look-- if you promise not to tell my boss, I'll drive you too. That way Mr MacLeod can have your car to get back.' He stands. 'Come on. He'll want you there.'

 

**

 

Toru taps the heat switch, until it pumps out hot air in a warming blast. 'You getting it back there?'

'I feel it.' Barton shifts left, meets Toru's eyes in the rearview. 'Quat?'

Winner stirs. 'Thank you,' he mumbles.

Toru applies himself to driving and not to thinking, but it's hard not to think. This is worse than before. Worse than anything in London but those awful hours when Winner was poisoned by Rzhevsky. But different than that. And Toru hadn't been party to it, then.

Winner sighs softly from the backseat. 'You weren't now.'

'I saw what she was doing.'

'You're a junior agent. And you were the only one there who didn't know what she was planning.'

'Wait—' Toru brakes unevenly for a stoplight, and the car rocks. 'You knew?'

'Not at first. By the time she brought in her deputy.' Winner tilts his head until Toru sees him looking. 'Don't be upset. I might have done what she did.'

'She who and what?' Barton interjects.

Toru is more careful rolling back into gear, and the car travels smoothly up the road with the green light. Motorway exit to take them to the edge of town. 'You wouldn't have. Not if you thought it would hurt someone.'

'She didn't know that. Or she didn't really believe it. Give her that much credit. It surprised her, and it made her look badly in front of her people.' Winner drags a knuckle over his eyes. 'Humiliation. She wanted me embarrassed, ashamed. Not half-bloody-dead. Not her fault the equivalent of a stiff breeze nearly...' He trails off. Toru checks on him, finds him staring pale-eyed at nothing.

Barton puts his arm around Winner. Winner's eyes close. He doesn't push Barton away.

Their arrival back at the hotel goes unnoticed. There's a man working on the lawn, replacing mulch under the rosebushes that will flower whenever spring finally comes. Barton pulls Winner out of the car as soon as Toru has it parked; Toru leaves them walking for the cottage and heads for the main hotel. It's still too early for lunch-- barely half-ten-- but they'll need food sooner than later, and he wants Winner to get something down while it will do the most good. Toru climbs down the short staircase to the dining room below the lobby. Breakfast is already put away, but he can hear noise in the kitchen. He knocks to announce himself, and goes in to place an order.

By the time he's letting himself in the cottage door twenty minutes later, he's carrying a tray loaded with sandwiches and a freshly-warmed hunk of last night's roast. The smell of brewing coffee greets him. It's percolating in the little kitchenette. He pours himself a cup as he pulls down plates from the cabinet. 'Hello?' he calls.

Barton emerges from around the corner. 'Food?'

'Yeah. Is he asleep?'

'Resting.' Barton takes the plate Toru offers, and chooses bits from the tray. From the downward angle of his face, he flicks up an eye to Toru. 'Thank you. For getting him out of there. Whatever was happening.'

Toru nods stiffly. 'Of course.'

'Not of course. Not with Preventers.' Barton peels a strip of the roast with his bare fingers and eats it. 'So drop the other shoe.'

'What other shoe?'

'There's always another shoe.' He gets both eyes, now, unsettlingly green as they level up at him.

Toru fills his cheeks with air, and swallows it down. 'It's--'

'Classified.' Barton puts a round bite in a sandwich. 'Ewin's going to meet us back here in an hour. You can do whatever you're doing then. But let him rest.'

'I would. I planned to.'

That's almost the end of it. Barton turns away. But then Barton also turns back. He strips the belt of his coat, reaches for the inside pocket.

'Thought you might find this useful,' he says, and drops a folded slip of paper to the counter. He picks up another sandwich, and goes back to the bedroom with it.

One day this won't all make his head implode. Not today, though. Toru grabs the paper up. It's a name. Ishaq Khosa. Not incredibly useful, actually.

Still, he pockets it. Barton may be strange, but he's not stupid. If it does mean something, they'll come back round to it eventually.

 

**

 

MacLeod makes it back in just under an hour. Toru doesn't see him. Barton goes, taking their empty luncheon tray under one arm. Toru pours the last of their coffee into his mug and puts the carafe in the sink to soak.

'Quatre?' he calls.

'It's all right.'

Toru pulls the curtains over the kitchen window. And the window in the sitting room. And the bedroom, when he gets to that. He faces the bed.

Winner's suit coat is draped over the foot, and his tie is folded across it. Winner rests propped up against the headboard, his shirt open at the collar, his hair disheveled from its usual careful grooming. His eyes fall wearily on Toru, and drift closed.

'I was dreaming,' Winner says.

'Dreamining about what?' Toru invites himself to the chair. He props a foot up on the stool. 'Good dreams or bad dreams?'

'I don't know. Good dreams. Happy memories.' Winner brushes a finger down his nose. 'When I was twelve my father threw me out of the home. I was old enough to be troublesome, and he knew where my-- civic interests were. He sent me to live with my auntie. She was older than Moses.'

Toru smiles. 'Meaning forty-five?'

'At most.' Winner's teeth show for a moment, in a grin that fades. 'She was kind enough to leave me to my own devices. She had a big old house to explore, a lot of old-fashioned toys. A stuffed bear.'

'Like a teddy bear?'

'No, a poor dead thing from some ancestor's hunting expedition. Seven feet tall and with mangy old fur all over him. I made a few attempts to clean him up. Hoovered him and brushed him. I was a lonely child. I spent more time with that bear than with anyone my own age. I'd talk to the bear like he could hear me.'

'That's a little bit more than lonely, I think.'

'Possibly.' Winner nods at the window. 'That seems serious. Meditation?'

'I thought it would help. How's your headache?'

'Survivable. Wouldn't you rather get to the questions?'

He'd been trying hard not to think about that. It figures Winner would weasel it out anyway. 'We don't have to leap right in. Barton will skin me if I make you ill.'

'You won't.' Winner pulls his knees to his chest, clasping them loosely near with crossed wrists. 'Can I ask you something? About today?'

'Of course.'

'Did you see it? The glow?'

'The glow?' It's been two months since the last incident. He hadn't even thought of it. 'No. Do you think I should have?'

'I think it rather makes sense you didn't. You've never seen it before, unless I was near another Newtype. A live Newtype.'

'Rzhevsky, but not the dead Newtypes we found in his apartment, or even all of them in the morgue.' Toru considers that, tapping his knee. 'Except for that time in the pool.'

'That's true.' Winner cocks his head. 'I'd forgot that. But I suppose the thesis still fits. In the pool, I was trying to do what Rzhevsky does. Use my ability to locate other Newtypes.'

'But you said it wasn't successful.'

'That doesn't mean I didn't try. But it's odd, that you'd see the glow for that, and not for the usual sort of Newtype business.'

'I think “odd” loses some meaning when you take a step back and really look at our situation,' Toru confesses. 'Odd doesn't even come close to describing today. We spent an hour talking about Newtypes and then Sally tried to short-circuit you. And I don't even want to touch _the usual sort_ of Newtype business.'

'They won't find Heero,' Winner says suddenly.

Toru pauses. 'I thought you didn't know where he is.'

'I don't. But they won't find him.'

'You never looked. You told me you never searched for him.'

'Because I respect his wishes. But my point is that it is not possible for them to find him. But there is someone who could.'

'Who?'

'You already know. You're the one who captured him.'

Ivan Rzhevsky.

Toru plants his elbows on his knees and plants his face in his hands. He scratches his fingernails deep into his scalp, yanks the elastic out of his hair. 'Quatre,' he starts, and doesn't even know how to finish. 'If you tell me you-- I don't even-- Look, if you tell me you read this off Sally, I don't have any choice but to believe you. But if this is you being paranoid--'

'This is me taking a hard look at the information we have and drawing the only realistic conclusion. They are searching for Heero. That's a fact. But you don't bang about the Sphere with a hand torch hoping to unearth a few decade-old clues. You use the best tool you have. A Newtype who can locate other Newtypes. And you use him before he dies in prison of prostate cancer.'

Toru stands. 'So what do you want me to do about it? What do you even think I can do?'

'I don't want you to do anything, Toru.'

'Then why tell me? You're not just passing the time. This is about undercutting Preventers.'

'I told you because you're a grown man and because truth is important. You're too smart to turn it down because it isn't pretty.' Winner shakes his head, but then he turns his hand palm-up, a mute gesture of apology. 'I don't know. I don't know why I told you. Because it makes me afraid for Heero. Because Preventers make me afraid for myself.'

'Don't be afraid.' Toru relents, slowly sitting again. 'Just... answer their questions. And then they'll let you go home, if that's what you want.'

Winner presses his thumbs into his eyes. 'There's a little garden outside. Can we sit there? If there's no-one to overhear us?'

'Sure. Yes.' Toru rises to offer a hand. Winner uses the leverage to leave the bed, slides his feet into the shoes waiting for him. Toru supplies the coat. 'Do you want a cup of tea?'

'That would be good of you.' Winner squeezes Toru's shoulder. 'Thank you. Truly.'

The garden isn't much, more a manicured lawn with a pair of winterised fruit trees and a few tentatively budding shrubs. Winner sits at a simple wrought-iron table, his chair turned into the weak winter sunlight. Toru sets a cup and saucer on the table at his elbow.

Winner lifts the cup to his lips for a small sip. 'Don't keep me in suspense. Read your list.'

Toru removes his e-reader from his coat and turns it on. The chair is cold and creaky, as he sits, but it is nicer out of doors, with a soft breeze rustling in the greenery, fresh air that smells cleaner than in the city. There's no view, just the plastered faces of the hotel's buildings, but it's physical and metaphysical miles from that cold conference room only hours ago.

Toru calls up the file. It's brief, just a single document. It will grow, as Winner provides his answers. Toru places a microphone on the table between them, hooks it into the reader. 'Is that all right?'

'It's all right.'

The first test returns clear. Toru sets the reader flat on the tabletop. 'The first thing they want to ask is if you've ever seen or read texts that directly relate to Newtypes, to developing Newtype abilities, to activating Newtype abilities, or to using Newtype abilities once activated.'

'Texts.' Winner cradles his tea to his belly, gazing at the fruit trees, his expression inscrutable. 'Yes. A few articles. Silly stuff, the sort of nonsense you can find on the internet, taken seriously only by people who have nothing else to do with themselves. There was some popular support for the idea that Newtypes represented a separate branch of evolution in humankind. Others thought it was the use of some specialised drug.'

'What kind of drug?'

'Even greater nonsense than the evolutionary argument. The stamen of some ancient flower found only in the deserts of China. Or the minerals found in caves that have never seen sunlight or even animal life. If there were ever drugs involved, they were perfectly normal.' Winner angles an eye at him.

Toru flexes his fingers over his knee. 'If. Were they? Ever involved?'

'Is that on your list?'

Toru checks. 'No. It just-- seemed to follow.'

'You're cleverer than you give yourself credit for.' Winner drinks, and sets his cup aside. 'But I decline to answer on the grounds that doing so might incriminate me.'

Toru feels both relief and frustration at that. He's not sure, exactly, which is stronger.

'Next question,' Winner prods him.

Toru clears his throat. 'If you have read these texts, could you provide titles? Authors?'

'It's been a long time.' Winner props his chin on his fist. 'I think there might have been someone named... Giralamo. Giralimo. Something like that. He thought himself quite the expert. I thought him very far-fetched, personally. He wrote a book called _Flight of the Soul_. A woman who called herself Morgana, who wrote several volumes about Newtypes. But it was mainly an extended defence of Wiccanism. She imagined Newtypes would be capable of plumbing the Mysteries. Contacting the spirits of the dead, interacting with our past reincarnations. She saw it as a form of magic. She outlined all manner of ceremonies and sacred circles. It was, as you might imagine, codswallop.'

Toru presses his lips together to avoid smiling. 'You're not very fond of mystical things. You don't even really like meditation.'

'I find that mysticism obscures the cause with the effect. I believe in God. But I don't pray to God for special powers, for secrets to be revealed from on high. Newtypes are something rare and not yet understood, but we are still creatures of science and nature.' The corner of Winner's mouth turns up. 'You believe in things unseen.'

Toru reaches to touch the microphone, wondering if he ought to turn it off. 'My parents were Catholic.'

'You are not.'

'No. I don't-- know quite what I am.'

'You don't meditate just for personal peace. You must believe in Enlightenment. Nirvana.'

'I don't know. Sometimes.' Toru hesitates over the microphone, and leaves it laying on the table. 'Sometimes I don't.'

'Fair enough.' Winner watches a bird fly overhead, to settle on the eave of the hotel's roof. 'Next question.'

Toru checks the reader. 'Do you know of any surviving men or women who were known to perform experiments to develop Newtypes?'

'Speaking only of what I know,' Winner says, 'and not how I came to know it?'

'I'm sure.'

'As am I.' Winner blows out a small breath and tugs his coat closed. 'In all candour there aren't many who are surviving. It's been many dark decades. Dekim Barton's death is well recorded.'

'But he hired people,' Toru points out. 'He hired scientists to build Gundams and to train Gundam Pilots.'

'I won't speak to that.'

'Sorry.' Toru chews his lower lip, trying to think his way around that barrier. 'You... had your funds temporarily seized by OZ. When your father died.'

'When my father was killed,' Winner corrects him, but not out of offence. He's looking at Toru curiosly. 'Yes, that's true. Why do you ask?'

'They seized your family's bank accounts because your father died while attempting to seize a military asset. The mining ship. He was in violation of the Earth Sphere Defence Authorisation Act of 195. Which was repealed in 196 under the Amnesty Act. And you said your funds were unfrozen and returned.'

Winner's eyes narrow. 'Clever indeed.'

'You told Sally you wanted immunity for any violations of anti-Resistance laws. But the only law that ever specifically targeted the Gundams was the Earth Sphere Defence Authorisation Act.'

Winner picks up the microphone and turns it off with a click. 'All the well-paid lawyers in Preventers and the President's office haven't thought of what you just did.'

Toru shifts in his seat. 'They will. I would think.'

'It's semantics. Whether the Gundams are separable from the Resistance or represented something new and different.' Winner plays with the microphone, turning it over in his fingers, winding the cord over his knuckle. He lifts his eyes to Toru's. He turns on the microphone, and replaces it precisely in its spot on the table. 'I was twelve when I first encountered the word Newtype. I was flirting with the Resistance and I knew the rumours of a new breed of mobile suit being constructed in secrecy. Dekim Barton himself arranged a meeting with me. I knew of him socially; the old colonial wealth was different from the noble lines on Earth, but not without similarities. Barton wanted, and needed, children of wealthy families. We were hostages as much as allies-- if our families didn't support us with money, we would have disappeared, I suppose. But I was twelve, and whatever of that I knew, I didn't really comprehend. He invited my father to discuss some business proposal. While we were there, he found some excuse to speak to me alone. He asked me if I had ever heard of Newtypes.'

Toru finds himself leaning in. He makes himself sit back. 'But you hadn't.'

'No.' Winner turns his hand palm-up, a tiny shrug. 'He asked me to imagine hearing the thoughts of men. Hearing their secrets without ever hearing them voice it. To know men's souls. He said that he knew how to make it happen. If I wanted to try.'

'So you agreed,' Toru says.

'I was twelve.' Winner's hand closes to a fist. 'And like most twelve-years, I knew less than nothing about reality. I agreed because I loved my cause and because I had no idea what I was getting into. Even if I had known-- I was a child. I can't say it would have deterred me.' He sighs. 'There were three people in Barton's extremely private hire who were involved in the Newtype experiments. None were themselves Newtypes. One was killed during the assault on Lunar Base by the Treize Faction of OZ. I last saw the other two during the Battle of Libra. One fought with the Resistance, and was killed. One fought with White Fang, and so far as I know she survived, but I have never heard of her nor seen her since.'

'What were their names?'

'I don't know. Of necessity they all went by pseudonyms.'

Toro nods. 'So what were their pseudonyms?'

Winner doesn't want to answer that one. His lips purse, and his fingers tap the tabletop, his nails clinking just slightly against the iron curliqueues.

'I knew one only by the name H,' Winner replies finally. 'He died at Libra. He was the project lead under Barton, though Barton abandoned him when OZ invaded the Colonies. The other two were Ivery White and Edward Alleyn.'

'Ivery White.' Toru does a moment of fingertapping, himself, and decides to just ask. 'Not Ishaq Khosa?'

'Ishaq?' Winner looks at him keenly. 'Now where did you-- ah. Well. At least you and Trowa are talking politely.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Don't “sir” me, young man.' Winner waves two fingers at him as if he were a naughty schoolboy. Toru grins back.

'So, not Ishaq?'

'Not Ishaq. Ishaq is a discussion for another day. Or perhaps for people other than we two. Next question, please.'

Toru tilts the reader upright. 'Do you know of any sustained contacts, modes of contact, or past modes of contact utilised by and between Newtypes?'

'An easy answer. No.'

'Never?'

'It would hardly be a secret project if we had an internet forum.'

'Even after the war, you never tried to find others? Even to figure out what was happening to you and to Mr Yuy?'

'It was quickly clear what was happening to myself and to Mr Yuy.'

'But when we met, you said that the Newtypes were universally unstable. How do you know that, if you never talked to any others?'

Winner is silent for a long time, then. Toru drops his eyes to his lap. But at last Winner sighs.

'Don't be sorry,' Winner says. 'You're doing your job. You're good at your job. But you won't like this answer.'

Toru swallows past a dry throat. 'Why won't I like it?'

Winner puts his hand over the microphone. 'Stop recording a moment.'

'Okay.' Toru pauses it from the reader, angling it toward Winner so he can see it's done. 'Why won't I like it?'

'There may not have been an internet forum, but there was a meeting place. There were not many of us, but our experience was all similar. Exactly the same, in fact. Most of what we know about Newtypes, the little bit we can claim to know with certainty, we learnt from discussing it together.'

'But why won't I like that?'

'Think who it would have been, Toru. And why you shouldn't want me to record this information where it might implicate you.'

His confusion lasts only a moment longer. 'The Kingdom of Sanq,' he says. 'My parents.'

'And between Heero, myself, and your father, and those others that we knew of through our own experiences.'

Toru rubs his neck, digging his fingers into sore muscles. A week ago he'd been bored with office routine; now he would have paid to get it back. 'All right,' he says. 'So this is the truth. We have to face it. And anyway, Sally knows my father, and she-- well, I assume she knows my father is a Newtype.'

'Let's not assume, shall we. Nor draw any attention to you.'

'You don't have to protect me.'

'Yet I choose to do so. But not just you, Toru. You think there are no other children of Newtypes out there who will fall under the taint of suspicion? Or nieces and nephews who might have inherited some pre-disposition? Rzhevsky has already exposed more of us than would ever have been known otherwise, and their families with them. And should I open Relena to interrogation, for playing her part years ago? Her brother, her lover, her friends relied on her, and now she knows things Preventers want to know.' Winner looks at him, his eyes sad with something that might be pity. 'I don't set out to burden you with a choice. But it is a choice.' He releases the microphone. 'Turn it on.'

Toru wets his lips. He touches the control for volume, un-muting the microphone. 'It's on.'

'I believe I was saying you wouldn't like the answer. The answer is that I don't speak to, commune with, contact, or otherwise exchange information with any Newtypes.'

That carefully worded response-- that present-tense declaration of a lack of _current_ contact-- makes Toru suck in a deep breath. That carefully worded response rides right to the edge of a lie. Semantics. Still the truth, but only just.

'As for my past statement that Newtypes are universally unstable,' Winner adds, 'I referred to my belief that such is, or at least was, the case. Surely by now Preventers have verified the data collected by Ivan Rzhevsky. If any Newtype were capable of controlling their abilities, I have no doubt the world would have had plenty of evidence of it. The Newtypes were developed as weapons. As we are not at war with an army of supernatural freaks, I take it as support for my argument.' Winner calmly meets his eyes. 'Next question,' he says.


	9. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's a glass bottle, the kind used to transport liquid medicine, but it's not labelled. He upends the bottle to check the bottom, but there's not even a manufacturing mark. The bottle has just under a fourth of its contents, a thick yellowish slick. He yanks the trash bin out of the corner. There are tissues in it, and the one on top has a dot of blood._

'Craft.'

Toru quickly swallows his coffee. 'Good morning, Commander.'

'Good morning.' Sally sets a stack of paper on his desk-- his divvy of the monthly nutmail. Toru had forgot he was up for rotation. He tries not to groan audibly.

'I saw that Winner's case file has grown,' Sally says then. 'You got some good material yesterday.'

'I'll be at it again today. Going over after breakfast.'

'Good.' Sally purses her lips, her fingers tapping on Toru's desk. 'Is he--'

Toru hesitates over the nutmail. 'Is he what?'

'He's-- you know-- all right? After yesterday?'

'Yes. Fine.' Sally doesn't move, and Toru cautiously adds more. 'Migraine. Well-- I don't know. He pretends like it never happened.'

Maybe that's too personal, after all. Sally puffs out a breath and nods gruffly. 'Keep me updated. And move him onto the hard questions.'

'Yes, sir.' Toru watches her leave, her boot heels striking the tile in hard raps.

And she's only been gone for seconds when Micheko is suddenly seated across from him, her wheeled chair sliding into place with a click. Toru sloshes his coffee onto his tie.

'Napkin,' Micheko says, plucking a tissue from his box and extending it. 'What was that all about?'

'Just checking in.'

'So how's Winner?'

'He's okay.' Toru mops his tie. At least it's dark; the stain doesn't show. 'I'll tell him you asked.'

'Please do. And Barton? I thought he was nicely restrained. He barely knocked the door off its hinges, getting to Winner.'

'Barton's all right too, I guess.' Toru carefully caps his coffee and moves it out of the danger zone. 'And his boyfriend.'

'What?' Micheko's eyes go wide. 'You held onto that juicy gossip for long enough. What boyfriend?'

'An artist.' Toru logs in to his computer, clicking his way past the usual security warnings, and calls up the electronic case search. 'He's nice enough. I don't really know.'

'Well I don't like it.' Micheko sighs. 'Hard to believe. They seemed so happy, that day in London.'

'Right?' Toru pulls his notepad closer, props a pencil between his teeth. 'I don't get it. Quatre says stuff about how Barton deserves a life. I don't think he really believes it, though.'

'Who would? That's what you say when you can't say what you really want.'

'Yeah.'

'What are you looking at?' Micheko drags her chair around Toru's desk. 'Name search?'

'Not entirely sure,' Toru admits. 'I probably shouldn't even... you're right. Never mind.'

Micheko looks at him curiously as he closes out of the programme. 'What am I right about, exactly?'

'Barton dropped a name yesterday. I thought it might be important. But I probably shouldn't even be using company access to look for it. Who knows what kind of bogey this could be.'

'Could be a clue, though.' Micheko props her chin on her fist. 'What's the name?'

'Ishaq Khosa.' Toru nibbles his pencil, wondering if typing that will blow up the computer. Unleash a worm in the system. Drop airplanes out of the sky. Get him arrested. 'I asked Quatre about it and he said it was a discussion for another day.'

'Which totally sounds important.' Micheko slants her eyes sideways to Toru's screen. 'I'd do it. If it were me.'

'It could be classified. It could be some ex-President's best friend. Or an undercover mole he wants to find, for all I know.'

'Which you won't, until you look it up.'

He's getting the itch in his fingertips. He tucks them into his fists. 'What I should really do is pass it up the line. Maybe a senior agent wouldn't catch hell for an unauthorised search.'

'It's not unauthorised,' she points out. 'You have system rights. If you don't do it, I will. Now I want to know.'

'Fine.' Toru spares one guilty glance around him, and re-opens the search. _Khosa, Ishaq, Unknown Quantity,_ he types, and checks all the boxes except for classified. If it is under wraps, it's going to stay that way, and Barton can just take it or leave it. He makes himself hit 'Search' before he can have second thoughts. Then he realises he's holding his breath, and switches to sitting on his hands instead.

Micheko scoots closer on her chair, her slim feet pushing back and forth against the leg of Toru's desk. She wears the same black leather shoes every agent does, same as Toru's, but her feet are tiny, next to his. Toru had been all giant feet and hands until he'd passed seventeen and suddenly filled out. He was still awkward when he thought too hard about it.

Her lips move into a surprised smile, and Toru is still watching that happen when he realises she's speaking, too. 'That was fast,' she's saying, and Toru blinks, unable to think of what she means. Oh. The search. He turns his head hurriedly to the screen before she can catch him staring.

God. Ishaq Khosa was a Preventer.

'What do you think it means?' Micheko asks slowly. 'Asking you about a Preventer?'

'Ex-Preventer,' Toru notes. 'And I have no idea what it means. Barton just said I'd find it useful.'

'I don't see how. Maybe you could ask him?' Micheko leans over him, moves his mouse. Toru yanks his hand back before their fingers touch on the keyboard. 'Left service ten years ago. Weird. There's no reason listed for departure.'

'People do quit, sometimes.'

'But there'd be a reason, right? And look at his service record. This is bare bones. Check his case record.'

'Maybe we shouldn't.' Toru licks his teeth, bites his lower lip. 'This is getting weird. Maybe we should leave it alone.'

'We will. Just after we check his case record.' Micheko selects the link and opens the new window. 'I don't recognise any of the numbers. You?'

'No,' he agrees reluctantly. 'So nothing famous or well-known.'

'Meaning nothing interesting. Although-- that's odd.' Micheko leans over him to view the screen better. 'File 35?'

'35?' Toru leans in, too. 'That's Bureau Personnel. He worked a case investigating in-house?'

'It's a dead link. No information available. All right, I'm intrigued.' She's hitting 'print' before Toru can stop her. 'I know a guy in the vault. I'm going to see if I can dig anything up on this.'

'Don't,' Toru warns her. 'We have no idea where this will lead. If we get caught with our noses in something bad, Sally's going to kick our asses all the way to a jail cell.'

'Only you. You're her favourite, so she has to be harder on you. Which--' Micheko reaches out a slender arm and yanks the fresh sheet off the printer. 'Is why I'm going to do the sleuthing.'

'Micheko!'

'Toru!' she mimics. She folds the sheet and tucks it into her coat pocket. 'You headed back to Winner now? Don't forget to eat. You get surly when you haven't eaten.' With a bright smile, she launches her chair back across the tile, rolling gracefully back to her own desk.

Toru checks over his shoulder. Sally is making another pass through the office. Toru shuts down the search, and grabs his nutmail. Better to do the work and dash.

Micheko whistles cheerfully when he passes her desk. Toru grinds his teeth, and doesn't let himself look.

 

**

 

'If all they're going to do is sit in the garden, I don't see why you and I can't go out somewhere together.'

'I should be here,' Barton says, with no expression, not even a guilty twitch, until MacLeod is looking somewhere else, and Barton releases that clenched jaw, presses his thumb to the spot between his eyes.

Toru clears his throat. Barton's head whips about, but MacLeod just offers a politely distant smile, shakes his hand as he approaches their table in the dining room. 'Good morning,' Toru greets them. 'How's the hotel? Still sleeping well?'

'It's a lovely place,' MacLeod says diplomatically. 'Join us? We're down to coffee, but the buffet is still open.'

'I was thinking I'd just grab something on the go.' Toru does crane his neck about. He'd intended to pass by the cafeteria at HQ, but he'd been pressed for time. He spies big buttery croissants on the buffet, and a large bowl of fruit that could easily go into a pocket for later. 'Did Quatre come out for breakfast?'

'I took him a tray an hour ago,' Barton says. 'He's slow this morning, I don't know why. I'll go--'

'Thanks,' Toru interrupts, taking as breezy a tone as he can manage. 'It's a little cold out today, so we'll probably just stay in the cottage. Mr MacLeod, have you ever seen the art in the Metro? A lot of the stations host contemporary art displays. I actually grabbed a map for you.' He pulls it from his pocket and shakes it out onto the table. 'Botanique is one of my favourites, and Hankar. Pannenhuis has some interesting architecture. If you stick with Line 1A you'll hit a lot of the good sites.'

'Really?' MacLeod follows the circles Toru drew on the map. 'That's a great idea. Thank you.'

'No problem at all. I took the liberty of getting a pair of passes.' He adds the envelop to the map. 'It's a week pass. I got it cleared through Command, since you're technically here in relation to a case.'

'That's very kind.'

'Very,' Barton adds, flat as ever.

'Not a problem. I hope you enjoy your time here. It's a beautiful city. Actually, it's kind of Quatre's idea. He was scolding me for not taking advantage of living near so many cultural landmarks. I hate to admit it when he's right.' Toru diverts for a plate and fills it with food, snagging a tartine of jam and toast and putting a big bite in the corner of it. 'We'll be done by supper,' he says around his mouthful. 'I'll recommend somewhere special.'

MacLeod is smart enough to take a gift when it's offered, and poses a bright smile for Barton, who is smart enough to let himself be manipulated if it keeps the peace. MacLeod takes his hand, and Barton lets him, even raising MacLeod's fingers to his lips to brush them with a kiss. Toru stuffs a banana into his trouser pocket and pretends he didn't see it.

'Enjoy the city,' he tells them. 'Don't be afraid to be a tourist. Try the waffles. They are better here.'

'Thank you, Agent,' MacLeod replies, and Toru ducks his head in awkward acknowledgment as he leaves.

He knocks on the cottage's front door to announce himself, even knowing Winner will have sensed him coming, and lets himself in. 'Hello?' he calls. 'It's me.'

No answer but a sleepy murmur. Lights are low. Toru flips on the kitchenette lamp, leaving his dishes on the table. 'Mr Barton said you were going slow today,' he says loudly, as he runs a water glass. 'Are you feeling all right? How's your headache?' He strains to see past the corner to the bedroom. 'Quatre? Can I come in there?'

'Just tired, Toru. It's been a long few days.'

'I know.' Toru thinks deliberately about the lightswitch for a second before he turns it on. Winner has a pillow pulled over his face when Toru can see him properly. 'You need your pills? Or a doctor?'

'Just not eighteen anymore.'

'Oh.' Toru bites the inside of his cheek. 'I can give you a minute. Or however long. You want me to leave and come back later?'

'No.' Winner drags the pillow away from his eyes, though they remain closed to the bright light overhead. 'I'm sorry. Just give me a minute.'

'Sure.' Toru pivots on his heel. 'I'll get some tea-- what's this?' He bends to the bedside table. 'You sneaking in contraband?'

He'd been joking. As soon as it's out of his mouth he realises it's true. It's a glass bottle, the kind used to transport liquid medicine, but it's not labelled. He upends the bottle to check the bottom, but there's not even a manufacturing mark. The bottle has just under a fourth of its contents, a thick yellowish slick. He yanks the trash bin out of the corner. There are tissues in it, and the one on top has a dot of blood.

Toru faces Winner. 'Where's the hypodermic.'

Winner sighs. 'Can we bypass this argument?'

'I can bypass your ass all the way back to Canada. Where's the hypodermic, Quatre? And what the hell is this?'

'You know what it is.' Winner sits up, shoves the bedclothes aside. 'You're the one who gave it to me.'

'I didn't give you anything!'

'Not this trip. In London.'

'This is--' Self-consciously he lowers his voice, even knowing there's no possible way they can be overheard by anyone. 'This is Rzhevsky's drug?'

'No.' Winner rubs at eyes that seem abnormally grey, and pushes to his feet. 'It's a synthetic compound that attempts to replicate the function without the side-effects. And it would not appear to be working.'

'How long have you been taking it?' Toru throws back the sheets, rubs his hand over the mattress to feel for lumps. Winner's suitcase is open on the rack, and Toru pats it down, too, feeling along the sides, going under the clothes to the bottom, checking the pockets.

'Will you stop if I just point it out?' Winner pulls on yesterday's shirt, buttoning it slowly. 'There in the toiletries case.'

On the bureau. Toru rifles it roughly for the-- yes. A pack of single-use needles, still in store-bought wrappings. 'This is not legal.'

'It's not illegal, actually. Ignoring the provenance of the original sample-- and we can hardly do anything but ignore it, since it was never logged as evidence and therefore might never have existed at all--' Winner slides his feet into his trousers and rises to pull them up to his hips. 'It's medical research. I am participating in that research voluntarily and in full knowledge that it may be harmful.'

'Harmful? I'd damn well say so. Were you taking this yesterday?'

'Yes.' Winner finds his tie in a pocket and loops it over his neck. 'Where we gathered quite enough evidence that this batch seems less than perfect. There's fresh socks in my case. Do you mind?'

'Will you stop acting like this is nothing!'

'Toru, why give it to me if you didn't intend me to use it?'

'When it was ready! When it was safe!'

'I can number on a single hand the times I've been able to wait for safe and ready.' Winner ties a single windsor knot in the tie and buttons his cuffs. 'Whether I'm ready or not, Preventers have made it clear that I'm to be busy here for the time. And that makes it the time to take all necessary steps.'

'This is not--' Toru grabs a pair of socks and throws them. They bounce off Winner's shoulder and fall into his hand. 'This is not war-time. This is not a siege. This is not a kidnapping-- it's not even a crazy man taking Newtypes off the street. You don't get to go all weapons firing! You have to act like you know the damn difference, Quatre!'

'You're too young to curse so much.'

'And you're too old to pretend you don't hear me because you don't like what I'm saying.'

Winner catches his eyes. 'That's fair,' he allows, grimacing at it. 'But let's do our yelling sotto voce, please. My head is wretched today.'

'Do you even know if you can take migraine meds on top of this stuff?' Toru closes his eyes and makes himself stand there in silence for a minute. Imagines his eyes as stones, his core a quiet cave, until his heartbeat is slow and strong and he can think without being angry. 'Don't make a fool out of me by hiding information,' he says finally, and opens his eyes to stare Winner down. 'And don't put me in a position where I might hurt you without intending it.'

Winner looks back at him. Not squinting, the way he does when he's reading Toru. Just meeting his eyes, man to man. Then Winner inclines his head.

'I won't,' he says. 'Forgive me.'

'I don't have anything to forgive. Just-- it distresses me. That you'd take this big a risk.' Toru eases out of his combative stance, but finds himself glaring down at the vial in his hand. 'This is why you've been looking ill. You were even taking it at St John's.'

'It's not so big a risk as that.' Winner sits in the easy chair, to don his socks. He musses his hair with a hand, scrapes it back where it falls over his forehead. 'It's being done in a private lab, but they're well-funded and reputable, and came highly recommended. They sent the first attempt two weeks ago. I'm trying very hard not to be disappointed it's not a miracle. Rzhevsky was no scientist. And the Newtype abilities are undoubtedly physical, but not in a way anyone else has been able to pinpoint. Someone, somewhere, created this serum. It's possible... I suppose it's possible that it can't be done. That it can't be both safe and effective. Or that the Newtype ability can't be so easily separated from the rest of me. Maybe it only worked because it did endanger me.'

'You're not really making me feel better about this.' Toru closes his fist over the bottle, and drags in a deep breath. 'All right. I want your word. You're not going to keep taking this while you're here.'

'That's my choice,' Winner replies, but he isn't looking up now.

'Yes,' Toru agrees, and tosses the bottle at him. Winner catches it. 'And everyone always says what a smart guy you are. Choose wisely.'

After that, working on the questions in Sally's file seems silly to the point of being ridiculous. They sit in the kitchen with tea, and Toru picks at his food, his appetite gone. The file sits between them, the microphone blinking to red to save power. He knows he ought to speak. But he isn't sure what he thinks. What he ought to be thinking. Except that this isn't what he ever thought Preventers would be. Guns and chasing bad guys and winning grand, great, moral battles. The certainty of justice.

'It's all right to want that. It's good to want that.' Winner reaches for the microphone, and turns it off. 'When we're young we see the evil of the world and stand strong against it. When we're older, when we're tired, we see the evil of the world as something inevitable. Something we can no longer change.'

'One of the better reasons not to grow up,' Toru says.

Winner's lip curls up. 'So it is. Don't be too disappointed in your elders, Toru. We were young once.'

'What would you want? Right now, if you could have anything? What would right the world in your eyes?'

'Ah.' Winner sets his chin on his steepled fingers. 'That's a layered question. Anything at all.'

'Anything.' Toru turns the case reader on its face, to hide it away. 'Maybe your friends back from Mars.'

'Yes.' Winner sighs that away. 'Yes. It may not seem like injustice to you, that they were sent so far away. After all, they left alive. But sometimes I wonder if death might have been kinder. To be so far from the home you fought for, so hard and so long. We love this world. This planet and its colonies. And I know that wherever they are and whatever they're doing, that love is undiminished.'

'I think,' Toru says slowly, 'that maybe I understand that a little more, now that I know you. I don't know if I ever saw it from their side of things before. Just that they fought and lost and that it seemed so futile.'

'You would have had a good life with them. But I can't imagine that you'd be anything other than who you are now. A strong and intelligent and dedicated young man. And a very opinionated one.'

Toru can grin for that. 'You're the only one who lets me get away with it.'

'A public service.'

'It wouldn't have been better. Death.' He steamrolls right into it, and loses his momentum almost immediately, but Winner is quiet and sombre and nods as soon as he says it. 'I just think-- that--'

'Redemption,' Winner says.

'Yes.'

'I'm glad you believe in that. And that you think it's possible for your parents.'

'You already know what I think about that.' And that it makes him uncomfortable, even now, and he has to shake the nerves out of his hands. 'People used to say things like if they were here, they'd think this, or do that. I remember once that Aunt Relena just shut it down. I don't remember who it was, maybe it was even Lady Une-- Aunt Relena just said, there's no use in that kind of thinking. And I always thought she was right. Thinking about impossible things doesn't make them happen. Except with you. Whatever this Newtype thing is. It should be impossible. But it isn't.'

'Where does that leave your thinking now, then?'

'That we're barking up the wrong tree.' Toru frowns at himself, tapping the back of the reader. 'That asking all these questions is pointless, and not just because you're trying to put them off or because they're trying to work around you. It's not that Newtypes are impossible. It's that we don't know what it is that _makes_ it possible.'

Winner breathes in slowly. 'Go on. You're onto something.'

'I think Rzhevsky must have asked himself that. That's why he collected all that information about the people he killed. He didn't really have to know how their abilities worked, if all he really wanted was a kill total. That stuff about posting the truth on that website...' Toru shrugs, uncertain. 'It doesn't really ring true, does it? Except as a last resort because he knew he was dying. But that's not why he did it the way he was doing it. It's the method that's important. Almost-- almost sort of continuing the Newtype experiment. Research. Figuring it out.'

'By going to the source.'

'Exactly. That's it exactly. I mean, obviously at some point, like you said, there were clearly people who knew how to turn others into Newtypes, but that's lost knowledge at this point, right?'

Winner spreads his hands helplessly. 'So far as I know. In all honesty. There might still be people out there who were connected to the programme, but I wouldn't know them if I met them on the street. OZ surely captured some records when they raided Resistance strongholds in the Colonies, but if it's even identifiable, that's a legal battle on its own, trying to get at it today. Parliament's never been entirely comfortable releasing it. I don't know even which agency would have those records.'

'Maybe we should try to get access to Rzhevsky.'

'Hold.' Winner stops him there, a finger out as he shakes his head. 'Even if I wanted to help Preventers on this quest you have to resurrect something that should stay dead, what's the guarantee that it's even useful to talk to him again?'

'At the very least, he could give you the formula for the serum.'

'If he knows it.'

'Or tell you why it works.'

'If he knows that. And if he can be bribed to give it up. What bribes are there for a fanatic whose life is counted in months?'

'Access to you,' Toru says promptly. 'He wanted to be in the room with you. To talk to you.'

'To rub my face in his murders. To tell me how very alone I am now.'

'Maybe. But I think also he just wanted to be with someone who understood him. Brother. That's the word you used for it.'

Winner looks away. 'I've known real brotherhood, Toru. I can't pretend to flatter his sick notions just to pry a few maybes out of him.'

'Then do it because--' Winner knows what he's thinking because it's Winner, but even as Toru is thinking it he almost wishes he wasn't, hadn't. Winner shakes his head again, and Toru cracks his knuckles slowly, staring down at his lap. No. Of course not.

But there are no 'of course's. Barton had said that, about Preventers, but in a way it's true. It's his duty.

So he says it even with Winner turning away from him. 'Do it because it will get Preventers off your back. They'll stop pursuing you if they have a--'

'A drug that can negate a Newtype's ability. Drop him on the street for the price of a syringe. A weapon that completely eliminates the Newtype problem.'

'Can you say the world wouldn't be better off if we did have a drug that could do that? You can feel sorry for individual Newtypes and still agree that it's too dangerous to have them out there where they can hurt people. Accidentally or otherwise.'

'And how is this drug to be used?' Winner demands. 'Will Preventers call us in for voluntary dosing? Or will we be imprisoned if we refuse? Hunted down and imprisoned for crimes we might, possibly, commit?'

'That's down the road. That assumes we can even find Newtypes.'

'But you can find them. Rzhevsky. And I think however long he lives he'll be answering the same questions I'm being asked, teaching them how to find us. Like Heero. If they find Heero Yuy, what are they going to do with him? What if he resists? What if, Allah forbid it, he attacks them? And they use this drug to neuter him like an animal.'

'Maybe he'll be grateful for it. Like you were. You're taking it voluntarily, aren't you? You don't want to be this way. Maybe he doesn't, either.'

'What I don't want is to have Preventers standing over me with a needle “helping” me decide what I want,' Winner says flatly.

Toru presses his lips together. 'We're getting overheated. I don't want to fight with you.'

'I won't give in on this.'

'Okay.'

'Toru.' Winner grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. 'I knew we'd reach this point sooner rather than later. I... I don't think I can continue to talk with you.'

'Do you need to lie down? I can leave you alone for a while.'

'No.' Winner stands abruptly. 'I don't think we can talk any more at all, Agent. You're under obligation to report our conversations to your command. I know that. So I can't sit here stupidly feeding you information you wouldn't have if I didn't want to like you and trust you. I-- I'm sorry. But I can't.'

It takes a minute for that to sink in. He tries not to let his hurt show on his face, to let it bleed into his thoughts, after the first spasm of understanding. 'They'll replace me with someone else. You still have answer questions.'

'On my terms.' Winner's shoulders hunch as he pockets his hands. 'It has to be on my terms, and not on Preventers'.'

Toru grabs the reader and the microphone and stuffs them into his coat, wraps it all into a bundle under arm. 'Fine. Okay.' He shoves his chair back and stands. 'I'll-- I'll tell them. Commander. They'll send someone-- I don't know when. Soon.' Winner doesn't stop him, doesn't say anything, and it only takes a dozen or so steps, fewer seconds than that, to get to the door of the cottage and then to get outside that door. It's closed at his back and he's staring out at the path with no real idea how that just-- 

Blew up.

He yanks on the handle of his car door so hard that he bangs his own shin. He throws his coat inside, and the reader tumbles out to the floor mats, the cord getting caught on the shift. He throws himself in, too, and jams his thumb into the start button, roaring the engine to life. He has to sit a moment, just a moment, to remember where he's going, which direction, the highway. He has to sit a moment because he doesn't quite believe himself.

But then he takes a deep breath. He puts the car in gear, and he drives the hell out of there.

 

**

 

As if it's not humiliating enough to have Winner toss him to the kerb, he gets to have it witnessed by half of Command.

Sally interrupts him telling her and calls in her deputy, and then the list grows to include the deputy Director and then halfway through telling them Sally stops him to bring up the the Director herself on video conference. Toru sits with his face flaming and his gut churning, trying not to stutter like a teenager while he repeats himself, drops sentences, and loses track of details.

Sally puts a halt to the agony fifteen minutes in. 'We're speculating,' she says, and the Director on video conference agrees. Sally steeples her fingers under her chin. 'Which leaves us with just one real question. If Winner's not going to talk to Craft, who will he talk to?'

Toru realises belatedly that that question is directed at him. 'Um,' he says, and has to cough to clear his throat. 'Um, I-- think he likes Micheko. Agent Micheko Walker. He flirts with her.'

Sally's eyebrows go up into her hairline. Director Sobrinho focusses sharp on him.

' _Quatre_ flirts with Agent Walker?' Sally repeats slowly.

'No. I mean--' It's possible to die of this much blood rushing to your head, surely. His cheeks are so hot he can feel sweat starting. 'I mean-- he-- it's like a game. It's not serious. But he likes her.'

'Well.' Sally shakes her head. 'That's a stroke of luck, I suppose. Director, if you agree, I'd say Agent Walker's the easiest way forward. We knew Winner would strike back at us somehow. Giving him a substitute buys us a little time to think of something better.'

'I don't--' He can't help but hunch when Director Sobrinho stares at him again from the screen. 'Never mind.'

'No, tell us.' Sally's deputy, Bhudraja, who's looking keenly at Toru as well. He doesn't like being the centre of so much attention. The wrong kind of attention especially.

Toru wets his lips. 'I don't think this is part of his strategy. We were just talking freely. Too freely. He says he doesn't want to say things to me that he shouldn't because he likes me.'

_'So we shouldn't send Agent Walker?'_ Sobrinho clarifies.

'I didn't mean that either.' Bhudraja urges him on with a nod. Sally doesn't, but she's thinking as she listens, and she doesn't motion for him to stop. Toru rubs his damp palms on his trousers. 'He likes her. But there's a reason he won't tell her things he would say otherwise.'

'What reason?'

This is not his secret to tell. If it is a secret. Maybe it's not. It's not Micheko, after all, who wears a false name and hides her family connections. 'I learned it in confidence,' Toru prefaces himself, which might be enough to patch his breach of trust. Maybe. 'Her father. Agent Walker's father was an OZ officer. Quatre, Mr Winner, he killed her father. I think Mr Winner knows it. He must know it, he would have read it off her. He likes her, but there's no possible way he can trust her completely, knowing that.'

His commanders drink that in with a long silence. Sally breaks it first. 'Good job,' she says. 'Agent Craft, wait outside, please. Dismissed.'

In the hall Toru gives his face a hard scrub with his shirt sleeve, runs his hands through his hair several times until the weird nervous tingles in his scalp have gone. He hooks his ponytail into an elastic and fluffs it over the collar of his suit coat. He shouldn't have said that about Micheko. Even if she doesn't mind, he feels like he breached an oath. She only told him about her father so that he'd know she understood about his father. It was a private thing they'd shared, just the two of them, and he'd volunteered it. He could have just told them that Winner and her tease each other and are friendly and that would have been enough.

He's been pacing and trying not to pace for ten minutes when the lift at the end of the hall arrives, the doors opening to reveal the same person he's thinking of. Micheko smiles on seeing him, her step quickening. 'Do you know what this is about?' she asks him.

'Quatre,' he says. 'You better go in. They're all waiting.'

'Did something happen to him? He's okay?'

'He's okay.' Toru stuffs his hands in his pockets and nods at the door. 'Go on. We'll talk later.'

'Okay.' She touches the doorknob, then looks back. 'And I have some news for you, about our friend Ishaq Khosa.'

He'd almost forgot about that. It feels like it's been a very long day already. Week. But they only looked up Khosa four hours ago.

Micheko goes in. The door closes, before he can even hear a voice inside. And then it's back to waiting. He paces a little, and fixes his hair a few more times, but she's not in there long, actually. Fifteen minutes after going in, she's back. Toru tries not to pounce on her, and stays stranded down the hallway until she sighs and beckons for him.

'They want you to brief me,' she says. 'Sounds like it went south pretty fast.'

'I'm not entirely sure what I did to upset him,' Toru mutters. He pokes a finger through the buttonhole of his jacket. 'You want to do it at your desk? I can walk you through the file. Although, honestly, the questions in the file are kind of--'

Micheko takes his arm and walks him away from Sally's office, which is prudent of her, because Toru was about to say 'stupid', and he knows from personal experience that Sally's door is not really all that thick. Toru punches the button for the lift.

'What are you thinking?'

'That your hair looks good like that.'

She grins. 'I mean about Quatre.'

'Oh.' Toru rubs his neck where it goes hot. 'Um--' The car arrives, and they load in together. 'We were talking about-- oh, Lord.'

'What?'

He waits for the doors to shut and the lift to start moving down. 'I'm an idiot.'

'Self-awareness is helpful, I guess.'

He pulls her in by the elbow, leaning down to murmur it against her hair. 'If you're going to work with him, there's things you need to know. But we shouldn't talk about it here.'

'Are you serious?' She tilts her head back. 'You are. What could be that bad?'

'Probably a lot more than I know about.' They're arriving on their floor. Toru punches First to take them to the lobby. 'Let's take a walk.'

Outside HQ it's a cold but sunny day. They don't have their coats, so they don't linger outside; Toru points them at a cafe up the block to get a couple of hot coffees, and they find a corner booth. It's just past lunch hour and the cafe is empty enough that they have space for private conversation, if they keep their voices low. Toru speaks as softly as he can, while Micheko leans in to listen.

He tells her first about stealing the vial of the Newtype drug from Rzhevsky's lab, the night they found him and Toru helped arrest him. Then giving the drug to Winner later at the hospital, because he'd felt like it was the right thing to do-- because he hadn't known then if he'd ever really see Winner again, hadn't known they'd be brought back together when Preventers decided to take an interest in all Newtypes, not just the ones who murder. Then he tells her about finding the drug on Winner's nightstand only a few hours ago, and Winner confessing that he's been trying to make it work for him. And how Toru didn't pass on that information when he was talking to Command just now.

But that's not the entire story, and that's not why he dragged her out here to talk, even if it's a secret he's not sure about sharing yet. He might, and he might not. Part of him still thinks it's only Winner's business if he wants to shoot himself full of something dangerous and unknown. But it's the implications beyond that. So he tells Micheko about realising that Rzhevsky could give Winner the formula, if Winner agrees to see him. And Winner putting all the pieces together then. That if Rzhevsky shares the formula, Preventers will have it, too, and if they're looking for Heero Yuy, then they have a way to bring him in, and that's where Winner drew the line.

'Well, of course he did,' Micheko says, when he tells her that. She swirls her spoon slowly through the chocolate-coloured foam of her coffee. 'Heero Yuy is his friend. He's got to be loyal.'

'And he should be. But what about _my_ loyalty?' Toru asks her. 'Do I owe it to Quatre, because he needs it more, or do I owe it to Preventers, because I swore an oath? Do I tell Commander about the drug?'

'Is that why you told me?' she returns. 'So that I'd be obligated to tell her? I don't know, Toru. I think you have to decide on your own.'

'I felt badly for him. That night at the hospital. You haven't seen the half of it, how awful it is for him. But then sometimes too he's so protective of this Newtype stuff. Like it's something special that has to be safeguarded.'

'Not something. Someone.'

'Someone.' Toru drinks his own coffee, but he's already had too much today and he doesn't really want it. 'Not Barton. Barton's not a Newtype. And I know he wants to protect Heero Yuy, but the fact is that Heero Yuy's not here, and hasn't even been seen in twenty years. And there's nothing saying that Rzhevsky can find Yuy from a jail cell. If he could have found him, come to think about it, wouldn't he have done it? He said Winner was high on his list of Newtype targets. Heero Yuy must have had a prize place, too.'

'Good point.'

'Maybe it's just more of that paranoia he has about the government. He's still wrapped up in a war that got lost a long time ago.' Toru rubs his eyes. 'He says he wants to trust me. But he doesn't. He doesn't trust anyone in Preventers. Like this battle he's fighting with Commander, making them run around for an immunity agreement. He knows that no-one's going to drag him off to jail, or Barton either. It's all just a way to keep us from getting too close to whatever truth he knows about Newtypes. He thinks Preventers want to make new Newtypes.'

Micheko doesn't react to that with the scoff and scepticism he expects. She doesn't react at all, except to raise her eyebrow.

'I wouldn't put it past Command,' she says.

'You, too?' Toru pushes his coffee away with disgust. 'Why would we want to make more of people who don't like us and can't control their own abilities?'

'But they could control it. If they had Rzhevsky's drug.'

'That blocks it, not controls it.'

'Maybe. Or maybe it's just a question of dosing,' she says intently. 'Think about it. You said it gave him some kind of seizure when Rzhevsky first used it on him, that night in London, and it made him sick as a dog all night.'

'It wore off pretty quickly. He was able to read both me and Sally by the time we debriefed him at the hospital.'

'Maybe, and maybe not,' Micheko repeats. 'Where were we the next day? Back at the London office. And he walked into a building full of people and spent a whole day surrounded by agents without having the kind of reaction he did yesterday when there were the same number of us.'

'That's true.' He looks back on those memories in a new light, trying to remember if Winner had looked any different, during Rzhevsky's long interrogation. Rzhevsky. 'He could read Rzhevsky. But maybe that's just because Rzhevsky is a Newtype, too. He never acted like he could read Ricciardi, and Ricciardi was in the cell with him the whole day. He read me, and Sally for a bit at the hospital. Barton, for that little bit that Barton was there with us in the London offices, but—'

'But he knows you and Commander, and Barton's an obvious one. I don't think he could read me. Not the way he did when we first met at the hotel. At the hospital, we talked, but he didn't say anything that makes you think he could tell what I was thinking. What about anyone else? Agents he'd never met? Strangers?'

'Nothing I remember,' Toru admits slowly. 'I'm not certain. But I think you might be right.'

'So it's possible.'

'But who'll ever know?' he points out. 'What he's taking now isn't the same stuff. And there's no legal way to make him take Rzhevsky's, if he doesn't want to. And he doesn't, if he won't even consent to interviewing Rzhevsky again.'

'I'll have to ask him, I guess.'

'He tossed me out for even suggesting the idea.'

'He didn't toss you out because you offended him with the idea. He likes you. You know he does. He tossed you out to distract you from bringing it to the real conclusion.'

That's a new thought. Toru blinks. 'He... you think so?'

'You didn't tell Commander, did you?' Micheko shrugs. 'You were so busy trying to decide what to say or not say that you didn't think of the dosing idea. I bet he has. He probably knew it that day, back in London.'

For all his complaining about Winner's paranoia, he never really imagined Winner had it in him to be that ruthless. That's-- smart. Very smart.

Toru pushes at his coffee mug with a fingertip. 'That still doesn't guarantee he'll talk to you about it, if you confront him on it.'

'No, but it means there's less room for him to manipulate me. We have something we want. And we have room to bargain. If he comes in to talk to Rzhevsky, you and me can keep quiet on him taking the drug already.'

'Not you, too! Between you and Sally and Quatre I feel like I'm surrounded by people who all smile while they plot to tear each other to pieces.'

'You know I don't want to hurt him.' Micheko reaches across the table to cover his hand with hers. Her fingers are long and slim, curling around his knuckles. She doesn't let go, and Toru tentatively returns the gesture, gripping her as gently as he can, so gently he has to hold his breath. She smiles, just a small smile, but it's just for him, that look, and there's a sudden warmth in her eyes that makes Toru as flushed as Sally's most disapproving look. It's infinitely better, though.

'I don't want to hurt him,' Micheko repeats. 'But Commander's right. And this is going to come to an end with one side winning and one side losing. Quatre will lose, but we can help him lose with his dignity in tact. If we offer him a window, he'll take it.'

He still doesn't like it. But he's not going to be the one in the room making the call. And he's not going to be the one because Winner pushed him out. So maybe that's the end of it.

He dares to rub his thumb over Micheko's. 'You said something about Ishaq Khosa.'

'I did.' They have to let each other go while she reaches for her inside coat pocket. Toru swallows and sits back. She has a stapled document, tri-folded, and she lays it flat on the table, smooths the creases. 'My friend at the vault gave me a glimpse of Khosa's personnel jacket. He was a Preventer for six years, and took a voluntary discharge ten years ago, to take care of his mother, who had cancer. Four years ago he had to submit a forwarding address to transfer the last of his retirement fund. Guess where he's living now.'

'Brussels?'

'Not even close. Although he's living close to something important. Montreal.'

Toru draws a blank on that one. 'What's important there? You mean Quatre?'

'Of course Quatre! Barton said it was significant and now we find out that Khosa's in the same country!'

'Same big country. Montreal is more than a thousand miles from St John's.'

'Tell me it's an accident. Seriously.'

'Maybe he was born there.'

'Nope. France.'

'They speak French in Montreal. Maybe he's got cousins or something.'

'You're no fun at all.' Micheko checks her watch, and stands. 'I better get going. Commander wants me to take it up with Mr Winner this afternoon, so we don't lose any footing to him. Anything last minute I need to know?'

'No. Yes-- I got rid of Barton and MacLeod for the day, but they're supposed to be back for dinner. I said I'd recommend a place.'

'That was nice of you. I'll think of something.'

Toru stands, too, and picks up her paper. 'You want it back?'

'I want you to find him.'

'Why on earth would I do that?'

'Because you want to know,' Micheko says brightly. 'And don't pretend you don't. I know almost as much about you as you do about me, Craft.'

She leaves him staring after her. But he has to bite his lip to stop his smile.

'Quatre has no idea what he's in for,' he says to himself, and tucks her paper into his coat. 'No idea.'


	10. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'You're a voice for people who need to be protected. You're a voice for people who need an advocate. If you don't step up, if you don't speak up, there's no-one else who can do it the way you could. That's why I went to you in the first instance, months ago. I knew you were the kind of man who could do a hard thing because it needed doing. From where I sit, you already made this choice. It's just catching up on you now, that's all.'_

'Agent Dawes? Do you have a moment?'

'Just a second.' Dawes finishes typing his email, and swings his chair about in his cubicle. 'What can I do for you, Craft?'

Toru leans against the fabric wall of the cube, tapping Micheko's paper against his knuckles. 'I'm checking into some case background, and your name came up. I thought maybe you'd have some details I could ask about?'

'Sure. Sit down.' Dawes pulls a gym duffel and a pile of briefs from his spare chair, and Toru settles in their place. 'Say, meant to ask. How's Mr Winner?'

'Recovered, I think. Thanks for asking.'

'Not that I don't agree with you, but you shouldn't push the boss on it.' Dawes offers a half-smile of support, and Toru returns it stiffly. 'After you practically threw us all out the room. You don't lack for balls, I'll give you that.'

'Doesn't do me much good. With Commander or with Mr Winner.' Toru rubs his thumb against the edge of his page. 'I've been pulled off him. Well, he pulled me off him. Walker's there now. So far as I know, he's doing all right with her.'

This time Dawes' sympathy is real. 'Happens to all of us,' he admits. 'Really. I know it feels like failing. But I got pulled from Rzhevsky, you were there for that. That's why there's lots of us and one boss, to make those decisions.'

That hasn't quite occurred to him. He's not entirely sure he believes it's not a failure, but Dawes wouldn't say it just to be nice to him. He bites the inside of his cheek, and lets it go with a sigh.

'Well, I have a question on something completely unrelated.' Toru hands him his e-reader. 'I'm looking into a former Preventer. It looks like you actually worked with him. Ishaq Khosa.'

'Khosa.' Dawes frowns over the case, scrolling the pages. 'Thirteen years ago? It's not really jumping at me. You have a picture of him?'

'Let me see it.' Toru searches the e-reader's contents, and flips the screen up. 'Here.'

'Hm. Oh, sure. Quiet type. He wasn't here long, I think. Why you looking into him?'

'It's kind of a long story.' Toru bites his cheek again, hard enough to sting, and sighs. 'No, it's not a long story. It's just not one that makes any sense. Trowa Barton-- Quatre Winner's-- um-- Mr Winner's, um, Trowa-- he gave me the name. He said I would find it useful. So I guess I'm trying to figure out what it means. If it means anything. So far it doesn't seem all that remarkable to me. He didn't even work any interesting cases.'

'Barton told you?' Dawes repeats with interest. 'I'd have thought that one would rather go through torture than tell you good morning. He's played it silent every time I've ever seen him.'

'Wait-- you only just met him in London, didn't you?'

'Barton? No. Saw him years ago. He came in with Winner. About-- well, ten years?'

'For a case?' So that had been true, too. And Sally had never told him. Sally wouldn't have been Commander then, but she had to know. If nothing else, she would have looked into it when Toru had proposed going to Canada to bring Winner in.

'Not a case,' Dawes says. 'Not quite sure, really. But Barton was definitely there. I remember he glared at me once for standing in his way. Thought he'd take my face off.'

'That certainly sounds like him. So he and Winner were here in Brussels? And at the same time as Khosa.' Toru checks the e-reader. 'AC 207. That's the year he left Preventers.'

'You're looking for a connection?'

'Looking for anything. Like you said-- Barton doesn't usually have a lot to share, so I'm just assuming this is significant.'

'Did you try Name-Check? They usually keep forwarding contact with departing agents.'

'I did get a current address. I think it's current, anyway. He's living in Montreal, in Canada.' He ponders whether to give up this tidbit, too, but Dawes is all right, one of those older agents who ignore the young ones unless they're actually working together, but he's had the most contact with Rzhevsky of anyone, now, and he's been good about Winner, too, which puts him a step above most everyone else in Preventers. Maybe he can be trusted? 'Off the record,' Toru says, 'way off record-- Agent Walker thinks maybe he's in Canada to be-- well, to be close to Quatre Winner. You think?'

Dawes looks at him keenly. 'Close to Winner? Why would he want to be?'

'Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he doesn't even know that's where Winner is. Montreal isn't exactly next door to Winner's town. But it's a thought.'

'You're pursuing it, then?'

Toru nods without much confidence. 'Not a lot to go on, other than Barton's hints. I'm not sure it's even important. On the other hand, the more we know about Newtypes...'

'I find it hard to argue with that notion.' Dawes almost turns back to his computer, but stops. 'You know who you might ask-- was Esme Gérard before your time?'

'Must have been,' Toru says. 'I don't recognise the name. An agent?'

'Coordinator. Back in the early days, that's what they called them.'

'You mean Intell Corps? I didn't know that.'

'In about 204 they had her team go through all the city Headquarters and review the filing system for flaws. If there was ever anything interesting or unusual about a file, she read it. And I'm pretty sure Khosa would have been detailed to help her-- we all were. So she might have more to tell you. She's still in Brussels. Hold a second and I can dig up a number.'

That's more information than he had yesterday. And with Winner occupied, it's not like has anything else urgent to attend. Hell, it might even be a nice change of pace, some old-fashioned legwork. 'Great,' Toru says. 'Thanks for that, Agent.'

Micheko checks in just after lunch. Toru sees her number on the phone, and grabs it to his ear. 'Hi,' he says. 'You're all okay?'

_'We're okay. We're doing an awful lot of sitting quietly.'_

Her tone is unusually bitter. 'What do you mean?' Toru asks carefully. 'He's not answering questions?'

_'No. They think they're so clever! I don't know how you dealt with it all this time!'_

'What's going on?' Toru checks around him, but no-one's paying attention. He thumbs down the volume just in case.

_'I can't tell if it's Barton who thought of it or Mr Winner, but they won't let up on it. Barton insisted on sitting in, and every time I ask anything, he comes up with some crap reason why Winner can't answer. And Winner just sits there and lets him! It's maddening!'_

'They weren't doing that with me.'

_'Don't I know it. I don't even know what they think they're getting out of it, except for me being ready to drop-kick them both. I even asked if they'd rather you come back, and Barton told me to just relax. He called me_ sweetheart! _I almost punched him in the mouth.'_

Toru has to hold in his own smile. He can picture it. 'He's just trying to get a rise out of you. He did the same thing with me back in London.'

_'It's working,'_ Micheko groused. _'I told them I had to return some calls from the office. But I really just couldn't take it anymore. Come up with some clever turn-about to save me?'_

'Clever turn-about, huh.' Toru picks up his pen and draws an idle sketch of a triangle on his scratch pad. 'Ask him about the war. He always talked about it when I asked. Sometimes he lets his guard down.'

_'What if Barton tells him not to answer?'_

'Then tell him about your father.'

There's silence on the line then. Toru doesn't fill it. He'd let that go without quite thinking it through, but reviewing it in his head, he thinks it's still right. Winner's nothing but a walking ball of context. One thing always leads to another with Winner, and if their past conversations are anything to go by, fathers are a subject just touchy enough to be inevitable. Winner will feel obligated to talk about it. And maybe it will be good for Micheko, too. He hopes. He hopes he's not leading her into something painful and cruel.

_'Sometimes you surprise me,'_ Micheko says finally. _'You always seem like such a nice boy. Until you aren't, and it--'_

'Surprises you.' He inhales slowly, until it fills his lungs. 'I like surprising you.'

This time the silence is a smile. He's sure of it.

_'Anything on our mystery Preventer?'_ she asks then.

'Not a lot. I've talked to a few people who were stationed here during his run. By all accounts, he's not special in any way. No-one remembered much about him. All of his cases were normal. His scores on all the tests were normal. Average. The only real nugget we have came from Dawes, actually. He says that Barton and Winner were here once at the same time Khosa was at Brussels HQ. So it's conceivable they met. I can't find any paperwork that says they had any official interaction, but that at least answers for how Barton knew a Preventer who dropped out of the corps a decade gone.'

_'Somehow I thought this was going to have a much splashier twist at the end of it.'_

'Me, too. Maybe Barton was just screwing with me,' Toru shrugs. 'Sending me off on a wild goose hunt. That would be sort of inspired, really. Keep me busy hunting down a name he could have just seen on a rota ten years ago, knowing it will keep me from poking my nose into what's happening there with you.'

_'Except that when he gave you the name he didn't know Winner was going to bump you off interrogation.'_

'I guess that's true.' And Barton is probably trouble enough without giving him prognostication powers, too. Winner's mind-reading is more than enough.

Mind-reading. Why it clicks suddenly, he doesn't know, but click it does. 'He's not a mind-reader,' Toru says, already reaching for his computer. It lights at his touch and he pulls up CaseNotes. 'He outright told me. I forgot about it til now.'

_'Barton?'_

'Winner. He told me early on during the grid search in London that he doesn't actually read minds.'

_'What's this got to do with--'_

'I'm not sure yet.' It wasn't the first day in the car, but the second day, after the pool, after convincing Commander that they should try to use Winner as bait, bring Rzhevsky in by the sheer force of whatever it was that brought Newtypes together. But he wouldn't have written this down-- what they'd talked about after that. He'd just told Commander and Micheko that he could see Winner glow whenever he used his Newtype abilities, and Sally had looked at him like he was crazy. And crazy was the better option, because he'd been in secret fear-- had been in secret fear for years-- that his turn would come, just as it had for his father. He'd wake up one day a Newtype, and the glowing just confirmed it.

But it hadn't. Winner had told him-- what had Winner said? They'd been alone, and it had been the first really honest thing Winner had said to him, Winner had turned to him, reached out to him, and just explained it all. And because that had been compassion, not a case, Toru had returned the favour by keeping it out of the case notes. And now that might mean it was lost, because he couldn't remember the exact words.

_'Toru?'_

'Just hold on.' Toru closes his eyes, rubs them hard with his thumbs. 'We were talking about the Newtype programme. He said it was really just he and Heero Yuy, he said Heero Yuy was-- able-- he said Heero Yuy could see possibility, or something like that. That Heero Yuy could figure out how to make impossible things possible because of his Newtype ability, and that was why Yuy was so good at being a Gundam Pilot. But he said for himself it wasn't that he actually could read minds, that what he was really doing was-- seeing changes in reality.'

He hears Micheko blow out a deep breath. _'I think you've lost me.'_

'But that's it. That's the important part. Quatre doesn't read people's minds, he doesn't hear thoughts, he's seeing reality differently than we are. That's what all this maneouvring has been about. That's why he fights so hard against Preventers trying to pin him down. He's seeing-- what's that quote? The only constant is change.'

_'I don't understand, but if you say so, I guess.'_

'I think I need to come back there.'

_'I thought Commander took you off duty.'_

'Because we thought Winner wouldn't talk to me any more. But it's not that he doesn't want to talk to me; it's that he doesn't want to talk to a me who's going to tell Preventers there's more to Newtypes than carnival tricks.' He's lowering his voice even as he says it, and grabbing for his jacket, his scarf and hat. 'So he shoved me out the door until I could change paths. Because he shoved me out the door, I had to really think about it. All along he's been doing that. He even let Commander spring that trap with overloading him, because he knew if he did she'd have to let him do this outside HQ, and if he could just get outside HQ he could re-set the board with better pieces. I'm hanging up. I'll be there in about a half hour. Hour with traffic.'

_'What do I do with them in the meantime?'_

Toru shoves his arms into his jacket and buttons it. 'Tell him I told him to meditate. I know he doesn't like it and I don't care. It's good for him.'

_'This all sounds insane, Toru.'_

'Fight fire with fire,' Toru tells her, fully aware of the irony there. But he finds himself having to bite down on a grin. 'I'll be there in an hour. And-- Micheko--'

_'What?'_

'We should go out soon. Maybe talk a walk at night. The city is really beautiful at night.'

She laughs. It's startled, but it's warm. _'Ask me again when you've dazzled me with your scheme to snare some Gundam pilots,'_ she says, and hangs up on him.

Toru is smiling as he leaves.

 

**

 

It's been pretty much twenty-four hours for things to cycle back through to this point. Which is sort of stupid, even by way of babysitting a man who doesn't want to be where he is. But when Toru pulls his car up to the cottage, at least he finally has a sense of what he's supposed to actually accomplish there.

He doesn't go in. He just parks, and turns off the engine, and gets out. He pulls his cap on-- it's still cold as a glacier outside-- and leans against the car door.

It doesn't take long. He doesn't get Quatre-- he hadn't expected he would-- but Barton is just as good. Toru stays right where he is, makes Barton trek across the lawn to him. Barton slows when he figures out it's a game of chicken, but chooses not to play. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes his time closing in.

'How's he doing today?' Toru asks.

'Your girlfriend doesn't have you on ten-minute updates?'

Toru shifts to ease the dig of metal in his shoulderblade. 'She does, yes. What do you say we stop the silly games and just have a frank conversation?'

'Silly games?' Barton repeats coolly. 'Like getting me out of the room so you can ambush him with questions, change interrogators? I've seen it done before, by players a lot smoother than you.'

'One question,' Toru says. 'When he used Zero. How paranoid did it make him?'

Barton's eyes go narrow. 'What?'

'Zero. It was designed for him. Did it help or hurt?'

Barton sucks in his cheeks. 'Hurt would be an understatement. He destroyed a colony.'

Toru hadn't known that. It takes effort not to blink. 'You think maybe he's reacting normally to this? Or is he assuming that he's under attack, and drawing you into it? The other day he wanted you to spend time with your partner. Today he's holed up in the trenches and calling in all allies.'

There's genuine curiosity in Barton's face. He seems to actually consider that. 'He's not using Zero,' he says.

'Zero was never anything but a tool. A computer system that does what Quatre already does with his mind. See different realities. Possibilities. And if I had to make a guess, I'd guess that Zero usually saw bad possibilities. The worst ones, even.'

Barton eases into something less than combat mode, finally. 'That would be an accurate guess.'

'I'm not here to do the worst of anything,' Toru tells him honestly. 'I want Quatre to be safe and I want him to be happy. And I want to find a way for him to work with Preventers without imploding. That's it.'

Barton's head falls to a cocked angle, one that assesses and ultimately relents. 'Don't try to shove me out the door with Ewin again. Maybe Quatre's paranoid, but he only goes for the big guns when he's solo.'

Toru presents his hand. 'Deal.'

Barton looks at it for a long time. Then he sighs. 'Fine,' he mutters, and gives Toru a limp press. He twists on his heel and heads back to the cottage.

Micheko is stranded in the kitchen, glaring down at a glass of water when Toru enters. Her face lights when she sees him, and Toru feels his own face heat at the cheeks. He clears his throat. Barton breezes past them, leaving them a little square of private space. Not that private. Winner has a new spot, today, in the little sun room, and it's well within Winner's range for reading people. Winner's head is already turned toward him when he looks.

So Toru inclines his head. 'Hi,' he calls.

Barton steps into his line of sight, back to the kitchenette, blocking his view of Winner. There's no words exchanged, but Toru knows there doesn't have to be. Whatever's being not-said, it takes a long time.

'So what's the plan?' Micheko murmurs to him.

Toru pulls off his cap and scratches at his cold head, fluffing his hair and then sleeking it back down into its tail. 'Present options. It finally makes sense to me.'

'Stop being so mysterious about everything; I hate that. What makes sense?'

'When we were working the case in London, he kept coming up with ideas out of nowhere. He figured out that the victims were Newtypes. And then he figured out that Rzhevsky's Newtype ability must be finding other Newtypes. And then when we settled on the idea of baiting Rzhevsky, Quatre decided to just go with him and wing it, and that got us to Rzhevsky's lab, a place we never would have known about, and it got us to Rzhevsky's database, which we never would have known about, and maybe Quatre assumed I'd be able to follow or just assumed it would--' He's not sure he likes the alternative to that line of thinking. Maybe Winner just didn't think it all the way through, but Toru doubts that on its face. 'He had to have at least considered that if he went with Rzhevsky, he could be killed before Preventers could rescue him. So either he spends all his time gambling on wild ideas or he's using his Newtype ability in a way we didn't really understand.'

'You started to say that on the phone. That he doesn't read minds. I thought he did?'

'It's not really thoughts. Not words or even feelings. It's people changing from moment to moment.' He raises his voice. 'Isn't that right, Quatre?'

Barton turns. Winner rises from the low wicker sofa, and joins Barton in the doorway. Toru holds his ground, as Winner sizes him up.

'I told you he was clever,' Winner says at last.

'They're always clever,' Barton returns. There's a sour note to his complaint, but he stands at ease, and there's no real animosity in the way his eyes land on Toru. There's a first time for everything, Toru thinks, and bites his lips on a smile.

'My reasons haven't changed,' Winner warns him. 'I will not support what Preventers want to do with Newtypes.'

There's limits on what Toru can say with Barton in the room, but he can say this much. 'Only if you view it as a binary. Preventers leave Newtypes alone or Preventers come after you. What if there's a third option?'

'Toru,' Micheko cautions. 'You don't have authority to offer anything.'

'Not authority, but I think at this point Command would accept anything that gets us through an impasse with dignity to both sides. And maybe we can go a step above dignity and get something useful that we both want out of it.'

Winner's eyes are tight on his face. 'Trowa, forgive me. We need a moment.'

'You're sure?' Barton asks him quietly.

'No,' Winner admits. 'But I am sure he won't kidnap me if I turn him down.'

'That's a safe bet,' Toru agrees. 'Thank you, Mr Barton.'

When Barton's gone, Winner comes to the kitchenette. 'I'm afraid I've given Agent Walker a rough day,' he murmurs, taking a seat at the little dinette table. 'I hope it goes without saying that I don't do it out of malice, whatever your Commanders think.'

'They don't think it's malice. They think it's damn-fool pig-headed stubbornness.' There's not enough chairs for all three of them, and Toru nods Micheko to the other seat while he stays where he is at the counter. 'Here's my question for you. Is it always a binary? Good choice, bad choice? Bad choice, worse choice?' Winner's expressionless, reading him but giving nothing back. 'I won't pretend to understand what it's like inside your head. But I think I understand the immediate problem. Good choice-- Preventers let you go home with no more questions. Except that's not going happen, because this is a real issue for us, and we'd be negligent if we ignored Newtypes, especially considering Rzhevsky. Bad choice-- Preventers use the intelligence you and Rzhevsky and maybe Heero Yuy give them to start their own army of Newtype soldiers. I'm not sure I like the sound of that myself. But I'm also pretty sure that's more science fiction than reality.'

Micheko's gone wide-eyed, but she doesn't interrupt. Winner's the opposite. He's tapping his fingers on the tabletop, a steady slow rhythm that tells Toru he's listening, at least.

'Not to say it's impossible,' Toru adds. He's finally warm enough to shed his coat, and lays it over the counter. 'But that we live in a world now where it's harder to hide that. People do know about Newtypes. And you can bet the President and the Cabinet and the Security Council in the Parliament were read in on Rzhevsky, especially when you realised the victims were Newtypes too. There would be a huge number of people who would be in the know if Preventers ever tried to replicate the Newtype experiments. There would be oversight. Records.'

'Conspiracies work because no-one expects them to,' Winner points out tartly. 'Think about the number of people who participated in Treize Khushrenada's military coup. That was a far more urgent matter and they kept it neatly under wraps. Hiding some hash and a few sensory deprivation tanks is trivial.'

'Not if it involves Newtypes. That's what I don't think you understand, Quatre. Maybe you don't like the Secrecy Act or any of that, but it doesn't mean there's no oversight. Which is why I think we ought to be asking Ivan Rzhevsky if he thinks there's anyone out there actively producing new Newtypes.'

It's not a surprise for Winner, who's reading it off him. It is a surprise for Micheko, but it's no sooner registering on her face than she begins to nod in agreement. 'He's right,' she says. 'Preventers have focussed on getting the details of his crimes, not the details of why he committed them. But given how he feels about it, it makes a lot of sense that Rzhevsky would have been actively searching for evidence of people trying to revive the programme.'

'This is just a new incarnation of the same problem,' Winner says. 'If Rzhevsky identifies a Newtype, Preventers will go running off to bring them in-house before they can become a problem. It's the same reason they're suddenly searching for Heero.'

'You're misunderstanding me,' Toru tells him. 'Think about how it would actually play out. Yes, Preventers will be interested in anyone who's a Newtype, but they knew about you for decades and you've been left unmolested. They're going to be a lot more interested in anyone who's trying to produce Newtypes.'

'Bait and switch,' Micheko says slowly. 'Hold out the promise of shady organisations up to no good.'

'And Rzhevsky will tell you, because he'll want you of all people to hear it,' Toru adds. 'And if you volunteer to do this, Preventers will see you cooperating, and they'll drop all these questions. You can go home, and I'll bet they'll let you.'

'They won't stop looking for Heero,' Winner says, but he's frowning now. The tap-tap of his fingers speeds up.

'But you said yourself we couldn't find him on our own. And Rzhevsky won't live long enough to help them do it. It will take months just to follow up on whatever intell Rzhevsky gives us about the existing Newtype programmes.' Toru bites the inside of his cheek. 'So? Do you think it's a possibility? Maybe one that doesn't need a kamikaze streak to sudden death?'

Winner's hand slides flat on the table. 'What if there are legitimate reasons?'

'Legitimate reasons?' Micheko repeats. 'For creating Newtypes? You mean resistance. Which means you mean war. I don't think you really mean that you think agitating for war is legitimate.'

'I do think that. I think there are a number of steps between war and peace that deserve some agitation, if reform can result. I think there are precious few voices raised for change, and a government that represses those voices--'

'There you go being binary again,' Toru interrupts. 'You resist or you fold. Maybe there's some kind of moral middle ground between being a government stooge and a collaborator? Like maybe the middle ground where we talk to Rzhevsky and find out if there really are bad things happening out there that Preventers _legitimately_ could be dealing with?'

Winner's mouth is thin with pressure. 'Of course a middle ground exists. It's whether it's worth the trouble of going there. It will surely be trouble for someone, and I don't want to be responsible for that.'

'But here's the thing.' Toru crosses the tile to Winner's chair, going to a crouch, balancing his elbows on his knees. 'Who would be better at being responsible for it? You reject Preventers out of hand, and maybe you're right. Our sole mission is to stop bad things before they get worse. And you reject the government, too, and I can almost buy that. The government's job is to secure the status quo, and if you don't like the status quo, that ends badly for you. Which leaves the private citizen. Someone with no hand in the pot, no profit to make, no mission. You're a voice for people who need to be protected. You're a voice for people who need an advocate. If you don't step up, if you don't speak up, there's no-one else who can do it the way you could. That's why I went to you in the first instance, months ago. I knew you were the kind of man who could do a hard thing because it needed doing. From where I sit, you already made this choice. It's just catching up on you now, that's all.'

Winner's head is bowed low. When he breathes in, his hands clench; but when he lets it go, his hands fall flat to his knees. 'If you ever decide you want a career in politics,' he says, 'I'd follow you, Mr Peacecraft.'

It's a strange thing, to hear his full name. From this man, who knows more than most what it means. Toru wets his lips. 'Not me, sir.'

'You want me to meet with Rzhevsky.'

'Yes.' Toru shifts, but doesn't rise. Not just yet. Micheko sits still as a stone, watching them play this out. The decision's not made, not yet. But close.

'And if I do this, meet with this man. You want me to ask him how Newtypes were made. How he found the other Newtypes he killed. Who he knew of that he didn't kill, and where he thought they were.'

'Yes.'

'And Preventers will use this knowledge wisely and justly. You hope.'

'I hope. I believe. As I believe that the only real way to guarantee anything is to see it through yourself.' Toru takes in a deep breath of his own. 'I'll be there. Right there with you through it.'

Winner touches Toru's face, a thumb on his cheek, fingers curving lightly to his jaw. Then they fall to the air between them, level and open. Toru takes Winner's hand and clasps it tight.

_Deal,_ he thinks, and Winner nods his agreement.

 

**

 

Sally starts shaking her head about halfway into his explanation. She puts her hand over her eyes at the end of it, sits back rubbing her temples. 'You wear me out sometimes, Toru,' she says tiredly.

'Yes, sir,' he answers.

'So let me make sure I have the gist of this. Without so much as mentioning it in passing, you go back to Winner-- after telling me that he wouldn't work with you anymore-- and you not only convince Winner to start cooperating, you convince him that we want him to re-interview Ivan Rzhevsky?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I see two big problems with your approach.' Sally drops her elbows to the desk, leaning in to him. Toru stares carefully ahead, avoiding direct eye contact. 'Number one. I'm not sure we do want him to talk with Rzhevsky. We took Winner seriously about this immunity agreement, and we've already involved the Executive Office of the President.'

'That's okay, though. Now you just have a supporting argument for getting him immunity. He's not stonewalling now.'

Sally purses her lips to think that through. 'Number two. Rzhevsky's still in London.'

'We already have practise at navigating Winner through London. The housing setup might not work as well, but he's willing.'

'Of course he'll want Trowa and this other man along.'

'Ewin,' Toru supplies. 'Ewin MacLeod.'

Sally's expression makes it clear that his attempts at being helpful are not appreciated. 'I've warned you before about being too deep in Winner's pocket.'

That, he protests. 'Ma'am, with all due respect, this is the opposite of being in his pocket. If Quatre had any other choices he'd be doing anything but flying to London to talk with a murderer on behalf of Preventers. I just barely got him to agree, and you know Barton would rather see us drown than drag Quatre with us. I explained-- I tried to explain--'

'This business about his Newtype abilities.' Sally drags his case report near again, frowning down at it. 'Did he explicitly confirm your theory about seeing different possible futures as choices he can make moment to moment?'

'No. I don't think he can explicitly confirm it; I don't think he knows for sure. He may never even have thought about it the way I did. But he didn't deny it, either.'

'And he's suddenly okay with you telling me about it.'

'No, sir. But I told him I was going to and he said he understood. He said--' Sally looks up at his pause. 'He said,' Toru finishes slowly, 'that he hopes this is knowledge that Preventers will use to smooth-- smooth our approach to Newtypes.'

'Oh, he did, did he.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Sometimes, Toru, I think you're testing me.'

'No, sir.' She snorts and goes back to reading his case notes. Toru flexes his hands where they're clenched hard behind his back. Selling his commander on this deal is proving a lot more difficult than it was with Winner. He'd suspected it would be, but it's maddening. They're all finally getting something they need, and it's taking the shine off what he thinks-- well, had thought, it's getting dimmer with memory as the hours drag on-- might just be a good idea. 'Yes,' he says, suddenly enough to surprise himself. Sally's head comes up. 'Yes,' he says. 'I think I am testing you. I'm sorry.'

He's surprised her, too. She considers him for a long minute in silence. She's not reading him the way Winner does, but it feels almost the same. 'Testing me for what,' she asks finally, 'or just for my good intentions?'

'Good intentions,' he mumbles. The floor is a fascinating subject for staring. He blinks down at the paisley swirls of the carpet. 'I-- sorry. I think it's just that all of this...'

He hears her sigh. 'There was a time when you would have believed without question that Preventers are only after the best for everyone.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You're growing up too fast.'

'I'm sorry.'

'No, don't be. Maybe I need a voice of conscience.' He dares a peek. She's not smiling, and her eyes seem sad, but she waves him at a chair, so it might not be all bad. Toru sits on the very edge of the leather cushion. 'All right. Let's walk through what we need. A trio of plane tickets for our civvies. I presume you're going.'

Toru nods uncomfortably. 'If you agree. Um-- Agent Walker? And-- Agent Dawes should be lead. He's the obvious choice for working with Rzhevsky, and it keeps our knowledge base broad.'

'I'll authorise it. Come up with a list of questions for me, and I'll run it up the chain. If you have it by this afternoon we can get you airborne in two days.' Sally returns his e-reader to him. 'If Winner doesn't want to ask it, I want you to ask it. I don't like dancing to someone else's tune. Get answers.'

'We will.' Toru turns off the reader and tucks it into his coat. 'Do you want me to ask Rzhevsky about Heero Yuy?'

'It can't hurt.'

'So we're really looking for him.'

Sally folds her hands. 'Yes. We're really looking.'

Toru bites his cheek, but it comes out of his mouth anyway. 'Can I ask why?'

'Why?' Sally raises her eyebrows. 'Because we could use his help? Because we need insight to the Newtypes that comes from a source somewhat less biased than Quatre Winner or Ivan Rzhevsky? Because he's a Gundam Pilot, and that still means something. A Gundam Pilot and a Newtype.'

'Wouldn't it make as much sense for us to try and get permission for contact with the Newtypes on Mars?'

That plunges them into a well of quiet. He doesn't break it. Sally is staring at him, so he stares at the carpet.

'I don't think we're at that point yet,' Sally says finally.

'If we're trying to get at the connection between the old Resistance and the Newtypes, then it makes just as much sense to try to find out what was happening in the Alliance and in OZ. Our only known source for that is in exile.'

'It would be exponentially easier to get Quatre immunity than it would be to get permission for that kind of contact. Toru.' She waits for him to look up. 'We haven't talked about your family in a long time.'

'We aren't talking about my family now, Commander. Just about people who have information that we don't.'

The minute-hand on the wall clock meets the XII just as the door shivers with a knock. Sally's head turns toward it.

Toru rises again. 'I'll get those questions to you.'

'We should grab some time,' Sally says, but she's already being pulled back to the computer on her desk, to the messages and meetings waiting for her. 'We should try to get together before you leave for London. Or maybe when you get back.'

'Yeah,' he says, not even believing himself. 'Okay.'

 

**

 

'Fuck Preventers!'

Winner weathers that with nothing but an inhale. 'I've already agreed.'

'Then un-agree,' Barton tells him, brutally flat-toned. 'You need to stop falling for these tricks. Stop falling for a kid who doesn't give you any damn reason to trust him!'

'Trowa,' MacLeod tries to interrupt.

'I'm not addle-brained,' Winner says, flat himself now. 'And I'm not so desperate for human company that I take the first offer that comes by. I am making the best choice that I can in a bad situation, and it's not pretty, no, nor is it easy. Feel free to go home if you don't like it.'

Toru closes the door quietly behind himself; none of the men in the middle of the argument look, but Micheko does. Her mask of professionalism breaks just slightly on seeing him. 'Took your time,' she mutters.

'I was making the travel arrangements.' Toru nods at the tense standoff. 'What's that about?'

'Mr Winner just broke the news.'

'I'm not going home,' Barton says. 'And you're not going to London.'

Winner closes his eyes for a moment. 'Ewin,' he says. 'Forgive me. But I seem to recall that you have a show in Paris.'

MacLeod looks uncertainly at Barton. 'Yes.'

'Surely you would prefer to return and see to it. That was always the plan.'

'Don't try to split us up,' Barton warns him. 'We're only even here because you needed someone watching your back.'

'Did I call you in? No. Did I ask you to stay? No. You were the one who left in the first place!'

That's almost vague enough. It doesn't seem to trip anything for MacLeod. It does for Toru, though. It answers too many questions. It's not Winner who's been pushing Barton to go; it's Winner reminding Barton of the reason it's cruel to stay. Winner was willing to give everything up if he could be with Barton. Barton wasn't.

Toru clears his throat. Heads turn, at that. Barton's face is a thundercloud. Winner is grim and weary. 'There's no arrests,' Toru says. 'And still no subpoena. And this is more than Preventers thought we'd be getting. It's a good thing.'

'Cooperation.' Barton dismisses him by turning his back. 'This is beyond cooperation, Quatre. It's collaboration.'

Winner stiffens. 'You didn't just say that to me.'

'Isn't it? It's bad enough when you trotted along to help them solve a case they could have solved all by themselves, but now you're volunteering for duty? And this one told me, what, five hours ago that all he wanted was to keep you safe, and somehow that means flying you off to perform your Newtype voodoo on whatever Preventers points you at. This is not what we used to talk about! When the Rebellion--'

'Trowa, shut up,' Winner says urgently, his eyes turning nervously to Toru.

Wherever that's going, it's not good. 'All right, that's enough,' Toru says, and puts himself physically between them. 'Go take a walk, Mr Barton. Cool down.'

'Like hell, kid.'

'Agent,' Toru corrects him coldly. 'Take a walk.'

'Trowa.' MacLeod hooks a hand over his arm. 'Come on. Do as he says.'

When they're gone, Winner turns abruptly away. His hands are shaking as he tries to fit his iPod from the table. Toru does it for him, selecting a playlist of piano music and helping Winner with the earbuds. 'You need space?' he asks quietly.

'No.' Winner rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. 'I'm sorry. That you-- saw that.'

'I'm glad I was here. You're allowed to defend yourself.' Toru looks over his shoulder for Micheko. 'Can you get him a glass of water? Or would you rather have tea?'

'They're leaving.'

'What?'

'They're leaving.' Winner's head turns toward the drive, outside. He starts to say more, but his voice dies to a dry rasp. 'Ewin's going to pack.'

'He's just upset, Quatre.'

Micheko brings a glass of cool water. Winner takes it with a tight nod of thanks, and manages a few swallows. 'What he said-- what he said about the Rebellion--'

Micheko shrugs. 'I didn't hear him say anything. Did you, Toru?'

Toru mimics her. 'Didn't notice it.'

Winner catches his hand to press it, then Micheko's. 'Thank you. You don't owe that.'

Maybe. Toru isn't entirely sure of that, one way or the other. It's getting to be a murky proposal, who owes what, where, when. But Winner looks so grateful, for such a little thing.

Not so little. It doesn't take much imagination, as soon as he starts to think about it. He believes Winner when Winner says he didn't join the Rebellion, and there's certainly no evidence of material support. But if Barton is a gun runner, and if the only thing that stopped Barton from joining the Haddad Rebellion was Quatre Winner, well... the story writes itself. And explains a lot about why Winner's been living so long alone at St John's.

Micheko shakes off the mood by smiling at Winner and holding a seat for him at the little kitchenette table. 'We'll all feel better if we get something to eat soon,' she says. 'I bet we could find a quiet place for just the three of us. If we go now we'll beat the dinner rush. You could use a change of scenery, sir.'

'That's a good idea,' Toru agrees. 'There's a little German beer garden just up the corner from here. Would that be too many people for you? If it is, we could just get the food and sit outside for a picnic. It's-- well, it's cold out, but you like the fresh air.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'You're not still taking that-- stuff?' He pulls Winner's arm into the daylight and rips at the cufflink, but Winner shakes him off.

'I'm not in the mood,' he corrects wearily. 'Please. I'm not meaning to be rude, but please-- I'd just like some time to myself.'

Outside, a car starts. Toru turns his head for it before he realises who it's likely to be. When he looks back, Winner is leaving, too.

He licks his lips. 'We'll go,' he calls after Winner. 'We'll, um, we'll come back tomorrow. Check in on you. We're flying on Friday.'

Micheko puts her hand on his shoulder. 'Come on,' she says softly. 'He'll be all right. Let's go.'

Barton's rental car is gone by the time they make it back to the yard. No surprise there, except that Toru can't quite believe that Barton really went through with it, really left. 'I really thought he'd find a way to stay with Quatre,' he says, lowering his voice self-consciously; and then remembering that Winner could, would, hear them anyway.

'You think it's a trick?'

He stops at the driver's side door of his car. Micheko is on the other side, propping her elbows up on the roof, resting her chin on her crossed wrists.

'No,' Toru says finally. 'No, I don't think it's a trick. I just think it's odd. Maybe the strain of everything just hit at the right moment.'

'You said that his boyfriend wanted to leave.'

If they're going to keep discussing this, it shouldn't be in range of Winner's ability to read them. Toru opens the cardoor and climbs in, and Micheko follows. Toru drops the key fob into the cupholder and presses his thumb against the ignition key. 'It is dinner hour,' he says. 'Do you want to go back to the office or get something to eat?'

'I'm too worn out for the office. Let's get food.'

Traffic is heavier. He's glad, at least, that they don't have Winner with them, because it's more people than he'd thought it might be, and after everything else that would have been one more awful thing to endure. 'Maybe we should bring something back for him?' he asks. 'Do you think he'll remember to go to the hotel for dinner?'

'If he doesn't, that's his choice. He's a grown man.' Micheko reaches over the manual shift and slides her hand over his knee. 'You did a lot of good today. Don't let Barton overshadow that.'

'I don't know how good any of it was. I was doing my job.'

'And doing it well. Isn't that important to you? It used to be.'

'It used to be clearer. What the good was.'

She sighs. Her hand leaves his thigh and turns off the low hum of the radio instead. 'All right. So let's talk about that. Why do you feel that way? Just because of Winner?'

'What if he's right?' He takes the off-ramp out of habit, the one that leads back into the City proper, forgetting he'd meant to keep going up the street for the beer garden. His face heats, and he stays in the right lane for the merge back to the street-level. 'I've only ever had one side of the story. Our side. Preventers was all I ever wanted and-- but there's this whole other history out there. Quatre's history, not even just the Newtype-- the little slice of it that's all about the Newtypes. Are we railroading him? He's right, it's a bad situation with no good way to turn. Maybe Preventers could come through on immunity for him, but he's still on the line for giving up everything he knows.'

'To help us with a threat. You know that. You said it yourself.'

Yes. He had. It just wasn't sitting particularly well on him.

'You need to get your mind off it,' Micheko says then. 'Think about something completely different for a while. Okay?'

He forces himself to smile. 'Okay. Yeah.'

'You said we should go out. Take a walk. Why don't we do that?'

'You want to?' He glances anxiously at her face, but he can't read her. For the first time he'd give anything for a minute of Winner's abilities, if it would get him the answer to that Madonna-like smile she's wearing. Is she just teasing him? Or is this really happening, finally? Happening too fast, for all it was his suggestion, and she's just agreeing to it. His heartbeat is kicking into overdrive and they're still sitting in the damn car.

'A night walk, I think you said,' she murmurs, her eyes on the road, that smile on her lips. 'Did you have anywhere in mind?'

'Um-- not really,' he says, dry-mouthed. 'My bouts of confidence are usually short-lived.'

'I don't know why. You're smart, you're handsome, and I've already seen you in your underwear, thanks to that stunt in the pool in London. If you think about it, we're well past first-date territory.'

'I didn't think you wanted to. Date me.' He has to wipe his palms on his trousers, going one at a time so he can keep a finger on the steering wheel. 'In London, you said, um--'

'What did I say, exactly?'

He had absolutely no memory of that to call on. He had no memory of anything at the moment.

'Well, let me clarify.' He manages a rocky break at a red light. She waits for him to down-shift, and then she turns his face toward hers. She presses her lips to his.

Whatever's left of his brainpower vanishes. Her mouth opens under his, and that's her tongue, brushing his lower lip, sliding softly along. He closes his fingers around her slim wrist, the hand that she's holding to his jaw, and then her hair. It's exactly what he imagined it would be, thick and silky, cool against his hand, warmer when he cups her head and holds her to him.

She's the one who draws away first, with a deep exhale. 'The light's green,' she says.

It is. And the cars behind him are not happy. He'd have been better off with the motorway. But then he wouldn't have had this. He fumbles the shift and the car rocks as they move forward. 'Sorry. Sorry.'

'Don't be,' Micheko says lightly. 'You're always sweet. I guess Commander's the one to thank for that? Or maybe your parents.'

'I don't know.' The cloud in his brain is clearing slowly. 'I think... I'm confused. Are we-- going to--'

'If you don't actually have a destination in mind, I suppose we could always hold off on the idea.' She pauses, and Toru risks a sideways glance. 'You know the way to my flat?' she asks.

So much for clear. There's a weird hollow space in his head that is probably supposed to be logic and sentences and driving skills. He's gripping the steering hard in both hands. 'Um,' he says. 'You-- um-- flatmates?'

'Audrey's on field assignment in France. Dani's got evening shift, so she's already at work and won't be back until three.' Micheko's hand is back on his knee. 'Did I make you nervous? You don't have to say yes if you don't want to.'

'It's not that.' It might as well be, though. He's hot and freezing all at once. And hoping she's not looking at his lap. He doesn't dare shift while she's touching him. 'You, you're sure? I mean-- it's a big jump from taking-- taking a walk.'

'Maybe,' she considers. Her nails scritch in the wool of his trousers, a spot just above his knee that tingles in reaction. 'But it doesn't feel like a mistake. I think it might cut around some of the usual silliness. We're not the kind of people who go on cinema dates and struggle to find something to talk about over a fancy drink somewhere. Toru, I'm... I'm not your first, am I?'

His face is flaming. 'I've done things.'

'But not sex?'

God. If it was bad when Sally made him talk about it three years ago, it's infinitely worse now. 'Not all the way,' he hedges. 'It never seemed appropriate.'

She laughs. It's warm, and there's nothing mean about it, but he still blushes harder. Her lips brush over his cheek. 'Sweet,' she says again. 'Why don't we finish this conversation at my flat?'

Clearly he gets from Point A to Point B somehow, but he's not cognisant of it. He's just suddenly parking at her flat in Etterbeek. Micheko climbs the front steps while he's locking the car, and he shakes out his numb hands as he approaches her. She holds out her own hand for him, and he takes it in his. 'Come on,' she says gently, and together they go in.

Her flat is up a flight of stairs, in a door with double locks. She tugs at his coat as he passes her, and he sheds it awkwardly for her to hang on a peg. The lights are all out but one in the kitchen, and she doesn't turn any on. He looks around, but blindly; his eyes don't work any better than the rest of him, with Micheko standing there looking at him. He swallows convulsively.

'Do you want anything to drink?' she asks him. 'Or do you just want to sit for a minute? Talk?'

Yes. No. He's not sure at all what he really wants. He tugs at his tie, a knot that's choking him. Then he just gives up trying to find words. He pulls her in by the lapel of her jacket, and kisses her.

She moulds tight to his body. Her hands go up under his jacket, stroking up his spine. His fall naturally to her waist, small enough that he can almost span it with his fingers spread wide over her taught stomach. He learns from the way her mouth moves against his, and this time he tries the trick with his tongue, and she nips him lightly with her teeth, making him jump. She laughs, and pulls him back down by his tie.

Tie. It goes slithering to the floor. His shirt opens as her fingertips twist the buttons through the buttonholes. He finds it an exquisite experience, doing the same for her, discovering the velvet-soft skin beneath the cotton, fitting his palms up over the satin curves of her bra. Her deep inhale as he pushes the shirt off her strong shoulders. She does the same for him, and he strips the cuffs off past his knobby wrists.

They go to her bedroom by mutual consent. No lights here, either, but it doesn't matter; there's enough daylight, twilight, filtering through the curtained window to see Micheko, and that's everything he needs. She's beautiful. And he's wanted this, her, almost since the moment of meeting her. His nerves are gone. In their place he feels calm, deep calm. Rightness. She closes the door, and turns to loop her arms about his neck. He wraps her tight and lifts her off her feet. When he sets her down, it's on her bed. He traces a line from the indent of her navel to the button of her trousers. It feeds through the hole with just a little pinch against her flesh, and the hook inside as well. She lifts her hips so he can draw her trousers down her long legs. He slides off her shoes, one after the other, and drops them to the rug beyond the bed. Her trousers follow, and he smooths his hand up her bare legs, daring past the knees, now, to the long muscles of her thighs. Her hip. The curve of her buttock. She does the same for him, his belt first, leaving it hanging open, and then his zip, the button last. He pushes them down, off with his shoes. He settles beside her, first, but she rolls with him, her leg slipping over his, and she lays against him, chest to chest. She pulls the elastic from his hair and kisses him, and then she reaches to her nightstand, and comes back with a box. Condoms.

Toru blows out a slow breath. 'I thought I was a Newtype,' he says.

Micheko rests with her head propped on a hand. Her fingers stroke his stomach. 'I wondered. That's why you're so close to Winner.'

'My father was a Newtype. Is. I thought--' He doesn't know why he's telling her this. Why now, and not later, but it feels important, and he wants her to understand. 'Quatre says I'm not. He says he'd know. I think he'd tell me the truth, if only so... if only because then he wouldn't be alone. But I thought that I was, that I would be, so--'

Her head moves in the dark. A nod. 'That's why you never had girlfriends. You hold everyone at arms' length, even the Commander.'

'I thought-- I don't know. If I was doomed, if I was going to go crazy, how could I... I mean how could I-- risk it? It would just make everything so much worse. Having someone to leave behind.'

'But that's what life is. That's why life is so sweet.' She covers his heartbeat with her hand. 'We risk everything together. We risk more because of love. And love makes us better people. Braver people.'

'You really think so?'

'I know so. I feel it. Don't you?'

'I want.' His throat is tight. 'I want to,' he says again, getting it out cleanly.

She kisses him again, gently. Sweetly. She takes his hand, and guides it to her back. To the clasp of her bra. She helps him, three hooks, and then it's off, and she follows it with her panties. Toru slips out of his own pants, and takes a condom from the box. She helps him with that, too, her lips warm on his neck, his collarbone, as they roll it down over him. She climbs over him, her hair falling dark around them both, heavy with her lavender scent. 'Ready?' she asks him.

He catches a lock of her hair, and presses it to his lips. 'Ready.'


	11. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'A man like you studies your subjects. You learnt almost as much about me last time as I did about you.' Winner twitches his jacket into place. He takes off the visitor badge, to lay it aside on the table with a negligent push. 'Shall I read that off you, too? I'm clever, but not as smart as I think I am. I've let Preventers fight my battles, and that makes me weak. And I'm mad. I hide it well, but I'm mad, and if I'd just been brave enough to let you end it for me, I'd be free of all this.'_

'Well,' Winner says, drawing the word out in an archly suggestive slide.

Toru goes red with a big flash of heat up his face. 'You really read that off me?'

Winner gives him a small smile. 'Don't be embarrassed. You're happy. That makes me happy for you. And I won't pry into the details.'

'I'll take my favours where I get them, I guess.' Toru pops two capsules from the foil, and passes them to Winner with the orange juice. 'Don't... um, don't say anything to Micheko, okay? It's kind of new.'

'Of course.' Winner takes his pills, swallowing them down with a grimace. 'Though you should know I'm not the only one who will read it off you. You have the look of a young man in love.'

'I don't know about love,' Toru hedges. 'It's kind of-- new.'

'I remember young love. Blinding and wonderful.' Winner sips his juice. 'It makes you feel like you can conquer anything. Live forever. Young love is something you can never get back. Enjoy it.'

Micheko and Dawes have reached the flight check-in counter, and they're loading up the luggage. They have quite a pile; Sally got them authorisation for two full weeks. Their flight is, of course, the red-eye, and a shorter one than the one that brought them to Brussels. It's well past midnight. They'll land well before morning.

'I'm sorry,' Toru says then. 'About Mr Barton.'

Winner's head drops back to the rest behind him. 'I hope you don't think poorly of him.'

'Shouldn't I?'

'No. No, he just did what he thought was right. Thought that I was betraying that. He's right.'

'He's not,' Toru says quietly. 'You agreed with me. With Preventers. I'm glad you did.'

'But I didn't.' Winner's eyes droop closed, and he doesn't open them again. 'You made a good argument. Not about this apparently inevitable clash between Newtypes and Preventers. I am too old and too familiar with this world to trust blindly. Information so valuable will be used. Did you think there was a long wait between the discovery of gundamium and its weaponisation? Or the launch of the first colony and the war for its sovereignty? Even before man came to Space there was war to get there first.'

'But it doesn't always have to be that way.' Toru finds a ragged fingernail and curls it into his palm. 'So if you believe that, why did you come with me?'

'Because you were right about one thing. I did choose. I chose a long time ago, and choosing now not to see it through would be the true betrayal. I don't know yet what I will do. What I may have to do. But you were right in that it's on my shoulders to take those forward steps. Sometimes it's only a sliver of difference between good intentions and ignorance of the consequences.'

Toru shifts with unease. 'I thought...'

'I know. I'm sorry.' Winner's eyes open to dim slivers, pale in the reflected light from the boarding walk. 'You thought you were a Newtype. If you can't imagine far enough to wonder how Preventers would have treated you if that had been true, then nothing I can say will make a difference. Maybe you would have been seen as an asset. Maybe a threat. But either way, no longer Toru Craft, keen young agent with the promising career. You're not the first.'

Toru inhales deeply for that. 'Ishaq Khosa?'

'Hm.' Winner approves his guess, but that's the only answer. He's getting sleepy, the pills doing what they're supposed to.

'But you're just doing it again,' Toru says then. 'Don't you think it's cynical, always preparing for the worst? Maybe Preventers can change. We can be more than you think we are.'

'Now that I do believe.' Winner slides his glasses on and pillows his head on his arm. 'Or at least I believe in you. If you rise high enough, if you can change enough minds. You'll make Preventers better. I meant what I said. One day, Toru, I'll follow you.'

Dawes is back, knocking on the window. Toru swallows back whatever he might have said, and opens the door, climbs out. Winner comes after him, sliding slowly, loose-limbed, over the seat. With Dawes on one side and Toru on the other, they get him up the kerb and into the wheelchair Micheko holds. She rubs his shoulder soothingly as he settles.

'Let's go,' Toru says. 'He's ready.'

They've learnt from last time. Toru picked a hotel outside city limits, not far from Heathrow Airport, as residential as he could find while still being near enough to town for driving. They arrive just as dawn starts limning the horizon with pale pink, collect their keys from a sleepy desk attendant, and disperse to their rooms without discussion. Toru walks Winner from the car to the lonely room at the far end of the hall, separated from the rest of them by two booked suites that will stay empty of residents and their intrusive thoughts. Winner is barely awake, mumbling something Toru doesn't understand and doesn't stay to clarify. He leaves Winner asleep atop his single bed, and goes.

With most of their budget going to those extra rooms, it's sharing for the Preventers, a suite with two bedrooms. Micheko's door is already closed, the light off, and Dawes is in the bath with the shower running. Toru finds his bag placed on the bed nearest the window in the men's bedroom, and doesn't question it. He liberates a fresh shirt from his luggage and shrugs into it, leaving it unbuttoned in the warmth of the radiator. He settles back with his case file.

Dawes and Ricciardi have done good work with Rzhevsky. They have other thirty hours of interview transcription, and he seems to have talked freely enough. There's a section for each of forty-six murders, recounted in prim detail-- almost medical, emotionally remote, anatomically correct as if that were all that mattered of it. No excessive suffering. The victims were there to die, not to be tortured, but disposal; disposal is another subject entirely. Preventers had found some twenty-seven of the bodies, so far, but the rest might never be recovered. Trash compactors, ten years ago. Rivers that feed into deltas and sweep into the sea, before that. Industrial furnace. Lye. A litany of cheap, easy, invisible ways for bodies to disappear in modern life.

The data from his kills is there too, a simple fielded database. Names, sometimes, abilities, more often, thoroughly described. That's the field that Toru reads twice, three times, more surprised every time. It reads like a list of comic book heroes. Winner's not the only one who hears the thoughts of others. It's a popular ability, appearing in a dozen different variations. There's even more abilities that relate to piloting. A man from L3 who could fly without instruments, land without guidance gear. A woman from Mumbai who could sense incoming weaponry before it appeared on radar. A girl, intriguingly, who claimed to be able to travel between stars-- even through the typeface Toru can feel Rzhevsky's grim awe-- but, held prisoner by Rzhevsky's drug, died of the same seizure Winner had had, choking on her own vomit. Ability, Rzhevsky wrote simply, unverified.

So it went, page after page. Forty-six lives, collected, dissected, and discarded. But nowhere that supposed list. The survivors. The wanted who had never been found.

Which apparently includes Ishaq Khosa. Toru can't remember from Khosa's file if there was any mention of military experience. But being an Earther was no guarantee of fighting with OZ, and as Rhzevsky had pointed out there had been Newtype experiments after the war, as well. Had Khosa left the force because he was found out? Winner hinted at it. Or maybe Khosa had left because he'd been afraid of being discovered. Because he'd met Winner. Because Winner would have felt the Flash, the Newtype Flash, and would have known immediately what Khosa was.

So why-- why on earth had Barton dropped Khosa's name? What was that about?

'What you up to, then?' Dawes asks, coming out of the bath with a flannel draped about his neck and a kit in his hands. 'Hard at work again so soon? We won't be going in til this afternoon.'

'Sometimes when I'm tired I get creative.' Toru reaches for the light so Dawes doesn't have to, throwing the room into dim orange relief. Dawes changes shirts, too, and throws himself backward onto his bed, bouncing the mattress with a yawn. 'You want that off now?'

'Ta, but no thanks. Best way to handle a late night is power on through the day.' Dawes does prop a pillow behind his head, though, and his eyes stay firmly shut. 'Found anything interesting?'

'Not sure.' Not sure if he ought to share his thoughts on Khosa. It was one thing to go looking when Barton was being mysterious, but Barton's gone, now, and if Toru is right about Khosa being a Newtype-- and if Winner is right about how Preventers will react to that revelation, assuming it's not already known if it is true-- the logic circles are making his head hurt. Toru presses his thumb to the spot between his eyes and sighs. He should meditate while it's quiet, especially since it looks like Dawes is going to nap after all.

'They're treating him, you know.'

Toru looks up. 'Treating who?'

'Rzhevsky. For the cancer. Seems when he had the diagnosis he never sought treatment. Too late, now, but the doctors think they've slowed it down. He might live long enough for a trial, now.'

'If there's a kind God out there, he'll live a very long life.'

'Amen.' Dawes scratches a hand through his thick black hair. 'I thought you might want to tell Winner, though. He seemed to think we wouldn't spare the cash, or something. Might put him in a better frame of mind if he knows we're not maliciously letting the man expire.'

Yes, it might. 'Thanks,' Toru says, happier with that notion. 'I think he will like that.' He almost turns off the reader, but fiddles his thumb over the switch instead, torn between the idea of going in search of food somewhere, or just trying to ride out the quiet morning. 'Why didn't he get treatment before?'

'What?' Dawes asks sleepily. 'Rzhevsky? Dunno. S'pose he'd say it was his own business if he wanted to die. Not much of a life, is it? Winner can't even use public transportation, and Rzhevsky's no treat, either.'

'Wait, what do you mean by that?' Toru sits up straight. 'He's got some kind of problem like Winner does?'

'I'd say his kill tally speaks for itself. He said they all go mad some day, the Newtypes. Being compelled to kill everyone just like you is a pretty persuasive argument for insanity.'

'I never thought of it like that.' Toru does finally turn off the reader. He's not sure he wants to dwell on it more, until that new idea settles, at least. 'He said London was the last big city. He travelled all over the world and the colonies, finding other Newtypes. For decades. And Lord-- those heads. He carried them with him. He really was compelled.'

'He doesn't say as much, but that's how I took it.'

Toru swings his legs to the floor, to kick off his shoes, dig his stockinged toes into the shag carpet. 'Winner thinks that... he thinks that Preventers are going to try to make new Newtypes. That all this fuss over interviewing him and now Rzhevsky is part of some conspiracy. Micheko-- Walker thinks he's probably right.'

Dawes opens an eye for that. Then both. After a moment, he shrugs. 'Maybe,' he says slowly. 'I suppose it's not impossible, is it.'

'So? How do you feel about that?'

'Feel?' Dawes sits up with a creak and a pop of tired joints and stretches languidly. 'I feel like it's above my pay-grade. We're here to ask the questions, Craft. Not judge 'em.'

Toru rubs his head again. That's probably good advice. 'I'm hungry,' he says briefly. 'I think I'll take a walk and try to dig something up.'

'I think we passed a convenience on the way in. They might be open.'

'Thanks.' Toru bends to grab his shoes. 'I'll be back soon. Keep an eye on Winner? He'll probably sleep on those pills for a few more hours.'

'Sure.' Dawes watches him dress. If he has any further comments, he keeps them to himself. Toru wraps up in his coat and scarf and leaves without a word more. He hesitates outside Micheko's door, but her light is still off. He doesn't knock. He just leaves.

He buys a pack of cheap beer at the convenience, more because it's easy than because he thinks any of them will drink it, and picks up a few packs of crisps and instant noodles as well. The late-night clerk yawns in his face and gives him inaccurate change for his twenty, but Toru lets it go without comment. There doesn't seem to be much point in fighting it. Any of it. Conspiracy. Newtypes. Quatre Winner, who finds new ways to make him uncomfortable just when he thinks he finally understands the man.

And Micheko. Who is waiting for him, when he crosses the empty dark street toward their hotel. She falls into step with him. Her eyes are sleepy and she walks with her hands in her pockets; her fingers are bare when he reaches for her hand, and he raises her knuckles to his lips to warm them in the cold. She smiles at him, and it makes a golden curl of heat grow in his belly.

He presses her to the brick wall that lines the pavement, nestles against her in a fall of icy ivy leaves. Her hand on his chest pushes him away playfully, before she grips him by the scarf and nips at his lips. He grins against her hair, and plucks open her coat so he can rub his palms over her slender hips. 'Hello,' he whispers. 'I thought you were ignoring me.'

'Just giving Dawes no reasons to suspect us.' She loops her arms comfortably about his neck. 'He thinks I'm a cold fish.'

'You really think we have to pretend? Relationships happen.' He presses a gentle kiss to her temple. 'We're not officers. As long as neither of us moves up the supervisory chain--'

'Ever?'

 _Ever_ implies more than the two days of sneaking about and necking in dark corners that they've had so far. _Ever_ implies more than a single awkward morning-after with Micheko's grinning flatmate offering him his socks over cereal. But he'd opened the door, using that word-- relationship. He had too much Winner on the brain. Young love. Giddy stupid young love, making plans for how to break it to Command that he wants to fraternise with a fellow agent. Officially.

Micheko gives up waiting for him to fumble for an answer, and kisses him silent. 'We're getting ahead of ourselves,' she says diplomatically. 'Let's worry about Mr Winner for now. I hate seeing him like this. It's not going to be pretty, is it?'

'Definitely not pretty.' Toru knocks an ivy strand away from Micheko's hair. 'I think we can count on Rzhevsky to make him bleed for answers. He said once that reading Rzhevsky's mind was like wading nose-deep in a charnel house.'

Micheko's nose wrinkles up at that. 'I don't envy him.' She pulls the elastic from Toru's hair, fluffing it out with slow strokes that make Toru's scalp tingle. He kisses the tip of her nose to make her smile. 'Toru,' she says, slow like the caress of her fingernails against his neck. 'Thorulf. Are you a prince?'

'Me?' Toru inhales sharply, not quite painfully. 'No. Sanq doesn't exist any more, so its royal family doesn't either. Anyway, I wouldn't have been a prince either way. My-- father-- my father renounced his claim after the war.'

'But you're still a duke. The Duke of--'

'No.' He tries not to snatch himself away, but he can't stop himself from stepping away from her. She catches at his collar for a moment before letting him go. 'I'm not anything,' he tells her flatly. 'The terms of the exile spell that out pretty clearly. But even if I was I wouldn't claim it. All I want in life is to be Toru Craft. Nobody special.'

'I didn't mean to upset you.' Micheko's lower lip disappears as she bites it. She sighs. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know it was that painful for you.'

'It's okay.' He shrugs his shoulders jaggedly. 'It's just not something I ever talk about.'

'Noted.' She takes his hand, this time, threading his fingers with hers. He lets her, already feeling sheepish about his outburst. When she touches his cheek, he manages a one-sided smile against hot cheeks. 'You okay?' she asks.

'You surprised me. Sorry.' He ducks for a final kiss. 'And it's freezing out here. Your lips are blue.'

'Okay.' Micheko tugs her coat closed, and bumps against his shoulder as she stands back to the pavement. 'You going to try to sleep at all?'

'I should. I probably won't.' He shrugs his shoulders, rolls his head to crack his neck. 'I don't seem to be able to figure out this part. The waiting.'

'It gets easier.' She swings their joined hands a little, and he smiles obediently. 'Dawes is in there snoring away. I think mostly you just get used to the idea that there's nothing you can do to make anything happen or not happen.'

'I don't think I like that idea.'

'You wouldn't.' The hotel is there before them, all too soon. Toru slows his footsteps. 'You all right?' she asks him.

'Yeah,' he says. 'Yes. I think it's going to be all right.'

 

**

 

Winner takes the visitor badge they give him, trying first to clip it to his breastcoat pocket and then switching it to the buttonhole instead. Toru helps him fit it to the lapel. 'If it bugs you, we can get one on a lanyard,' he suggests.

Winner makes a little face. 'No, thank you. I don't want a literal noose about my neck.'

To match the figurative one Preventers have put there. It goes unsaid, but then again, the protests have all stopped since the airport in Brussels. Winner's acting the way he does right before a big confrontation; he's quiet, calm, focussed. Toru is the one with nerves, curling his toes in his shoes, tapping his fingers rapidly on his thighs. He's anxious about the set-up, even though he'd triple checked it before arrival and it's clearly working as designed. There's only the one security check at the desk, and other than Dawes and Micheko, the room is empty. Ivan Rzhevsky was brought in fifteen minutes ago and will be waiting alone for them. And only Winner will be in interrogation with him. He'll have a microphone, so they can communicate, but there won't be any distractions unless Winner asks for one.

'You want anything?' he asks Winner. 'Tea? Something to eat?'

'Tea, thank you.' Winner smooths his tie down over his chest, tucking the pointed tip into place just above his belt. 'Get yourself something decaffeinated, if I might suggest it.'

'Yeah,' Toru mutters sheepishly, and heads for the break room and the pantry.

When he returns, Micheko is running down the routine with Winner one final time. Winner is standing patiently, but he's clearly not listening. Dawes only watches it all with interest, remarking on none of it.

'If Rzhevsky tries to get under your skin, let him think it's working,' Micheko suggests. 'Power is important to him, especially now he's in prison and you're not. He'll want all the control he can get over you. But if he starts trying to walk back over the previous murders, give him a little push back on topic. We've got what we need to prosecute and to put those people to rest. If he starts taking things back or inventing new angles just to get to you, and we have that on tape, that's potential trouble for our legal case. Keep him focussed on the Newtype programme, not on individual Newtypes. Encourage him to talk about himself and his own experience.'

'Entice him,' Toru says, joining them. 'Share something small about yourself. Ask him to share in turn. I think he will, for you.'

'Mm,' Winner answers.

Toru hands over the tea. He has just a hot water himself, boiling over a slice of lemon. Something to occupy his hands. If there were lemon slices for brains, he'd have poured himself some of that, too. Winner smiles at him. Micheko smiles at him. Dawes raises his thick eyebrows, and inclines his head toward the security doors. Yes. Time.

'Mr Winner,' Toru says formally. 'We're ready when you are.'

'Allah protect us,' Winner mutters, and follows Toru's gesture through the doors.

Ivan Rzhevsky has changed in just the short amount of time since Toru had tried to strangle him on the floor of that evil lab of his. Before, he had seemed powerful, muscular, a man in his prime. Now the grey in his hair and beard have overtaken the dark, and his face is sunken in the cheeks, pale skin sagging beneath his eyes. The weight loss is dramatic. He hadn't looked it, before. Now he does. He's an ill man. A dying man. Good, Toru thinks, and then is ashamed of himself. It's no good wishing death, even on a man like this one. But still-- if anyone deserves to waste away, it's Ivan Rzhevsky.

It's the same room where they conducted his initial interrogation. The Preventers get stools before the big one-way window on the interrogation chamber, and they watch as Winner enters it. He closes the door, and leans on it, instead of going to the table. Rzhevsky, seated in the same spot as before, looks up at him, but doesn't stalk him down, like that first time. There's no opening salvos, no sneering back and forth.

But there is the glow.

It's been so long since he's seen it that its presence surprises Toru. It's soft, almost aura-like, but it covers their skin in a gold limn, and it's in the air between them, too, linking them. They stare at each other. But it's silent for so long that Micheko shifts to look at Toru. Toru clears his throat, and reaches for the 'on' switch of the microphone. 'Quatre,' he begins.

'No,' Dawes says abruptly. 'Let him. There's nothing wasted here by watching how they react to each other. We may never have another chance to watch Newtypes interacting.'

As if they were a curious species of extinct animals under observation. They are, at that.

But Winner is drawing in a deep breath, on the other side of the mirror. He leaves the door at last, to pull out the empty chair at the table. He doesn't sit, not immediately, but his hand lingers there on the chair rail, his eyes never leaving Rzhevsky's.

He says, _'I am sorry for your suffering.'_

There's just the tiniest flicker of emotion breaking Rzhevsky's stony cool. His eyes drop to the table, then rise defiantly. _'Thank you,'_ he answers shortly.

Even his gravely voice is different. Faded to a crushed whisper. Prison is nothing to a broken body. But now the battle lines are drawn. And Winner is winning, with just that simple beginning. Compassion.

Winner sits. _'You know I don't come here for myself.'_

 _'I know nothing but what you tell me,'_ Rzhevsky shrugs. _'You read my thoughts. I do not read yours.'_

 _'No, but a man like you studies your subjects. You learnt almost as much about me last time as I did about you.'_ Winner twitches his jacket into place. He takes off the visitor badge, to lay it aside on the table with a negligent push. _'Shall I read that off you, too? I'm clever, but not as smart as I think I am. I've let Preventers fight my battles, and that makes me weak. And I'm mad. I hide it well, but I'm mad, and if I'd just been brave enough to let you end it for me, I'd be free of all this.'_

 _'So?'_ Rzhevsky props his chin on his fists. _'So you come for a second try? I have nothing to give you. They emasculate me with their cancer drugs and take away my shoestrings.'_

 _'For your suffering I am sorry. But I don't pity you. Suicide would be too kind after what you did.'_ Winner sips his tea and sets that aside, too. _'I've come here to talk to you as Newtype to Newtype. We have a list of questions. Preventers seem to think that you'll answer them for me. Well?'_

It might be the lighting. Toru can't be sure. The glow seems stronger, for a second. Just a second, like a flare. But then it's just back to normal. As normal as two glowing men can be.

Rzhevsky lets out a rusty laugh that seems to startle even himself. _'Newtype to Newtype. We have no special bond. I have nothing to say to you.'_

 _'Don't we?'_ Winner folds his hands flat on the table, taps once with his finger, and stills. _'I don't have to like it,'_ he says. _'But we are bound. I feel it. I know you feel it, and I know that you know that you feel it. Lies are ineffective when I can see inside your head, Mr Rzhevsky. I know that you would have gone proudly to the grave with all your secrets intact. But that's not how it's going to happen. I'm here. Tell me your story so I don't have to take it from you. Tell me how to avoid repeating the story that made you and I possible.'_

 _'Avoid?'_ Rzhevsky says sharply.

 _'Yes, avoid. Those Preventers on the other side of that wall want to know how Newtypes are made and how our abilities tick.'_ Winner taps his finger again, three times, counting the time. _'I've been trying to hold off this moment. I've been dragging this out because I could only see horror at the ultimate end. Where there is a way, there is a weapon-- but this weapon is an abomination. Newtypes are a perversion of humanity. I can almost understand why you felt you had to do what you did. We don't belong in this world. We can't connect out there, we can't function, we can't contribute. The only reason we exist is to win at war, and we even failed at that. We should vanish. We should disappear and fade into history with no more mark than a scuff on a shoe. Yes?'_

 _'And sharing our secrets with Preventers will miraculously make this happen?'_ Rzhevsky demands snidely. He dismisses Winner with a flick of his hand. _'You're an idealist. Of the worst sort. Go away, Winner.'_

_'I don't ask you to trust Preventers. I ask you to trust me.'_

That's almost what Toru had said, back in Brussels. Or what Winner said to Toru, anyway. He doesn't trust an institution that would even think to ask these questions. But he trusts Toru enough to venture the truth in front of him, and he has, almost since the beginning, revealing more and more about Newtypes, about himself. But that's a relationship, that's an almost-friendship, even something a little bit like mentorship. There's none of that between Rzhevsky and Winner. Just murderer and victim. Two men sharing one incidental characteristic that somehow defines everything else.

'Damn,' Dawes murmurs. 'It's going to work. He is clever, all right.'

The silence in there goes on, draws out, even longer than the first time, just the two men sitting and looking at each other. Toru finds himself holding his breath. Micheko, on his left, reaches down between their stools and brushes her hand against his. He links their little fingers under the cover of their coats.

Whatever's being communicated in there, it happens silently. _'Yes,'_ Winner says, to something only he can hear. _'That's very true. We'll have to talk about that, some day, if you live long enough.'_

Rzhevsky's mouth turns up in a grim smile. _'Ask your questions.'_

That's Toru's cue. Winner has the case file, but he didn't want to be bothered with notes and readers, and now that he sees them together Toru agrees. Toru uses his own reader to pass along the questions one by one. 'First one is how did he become aware of the Newtype programme,' he tells Winner over the microphone.

 _'You were recruited,'_ Winner says. _'How? Who found you?'_

 _'Ventei and Bonaparte.'_ Rzhevsky sighs. _'General Ventei had given secret orders to pursue counter-intelligence activity outside the usual boundaries. It was known that the Rebels were dabbling in extra-sensory techniques. Commander Bonaparte had a contact. The contact passed him information, video. He had a few colonists arrested, and coerced them into working for him. This was long ago now, not long before the original Heero Yuy was assassinated.'_ He cants an eye toward Winner. _'Have you ever wondered how an assassin got that close to him, protected as he was? Have you ever wondered if his assassin was a Newtype?'_

Micheko lets out a low whistle. 'If that ever gets around, there's going to be a lot of people who'll be glad there's no more Newtypes.'

'No lie,' Dawes agrees heavily.

Winner's impassive to this revelation. If it is a revelation to him. Toru shifts uncomfortably, wondering. 'Ventei and Bonaparte,' Toru repeats through the microphone. 'Pursue that.'

 _'Commander Bonaparte,'_ Winner says. _'He died at New Edwards.'_

 _'Also assassinated by a Newtype,'_ Rzhevsky points out cruelly.

That Winner does react to; with a long slow inhale, eyes closing for a long minute. _'Yes,'_ he admits. _'What we did that day was a terrible mistake.'_

But Rzhevsky surprises them all by merely shrugging it away. _'You did as you were meant to do. That was all Treize Khushrenada wanted of you. The rest of the war was incidental to him. You were just the springboard for Operation Daybreak. The Rebels were a much smaller threat than the Alliance.'_

 _'In the beginning, certainly,'_ Winner says coolly. _'Then again, Oz were never as big a threat as White Fang. There's always someone willing to reach for a bigger weapon with a shorter fuse.'_

This amuses Rzhevsky. He inclines his head.

'Bonaparte,' Toru reminds Winner.

 _'So they had a programme in place already,'_ Winner says. _'So far back as 175.'_

 _'Not as much as it would eventually become. In the early days it was underfunded, understudied. If it produced real Newtypes it was more chance than purpose.'_ Rzhevsky rubs his bearded jaw. _'I was nineteen. Assisting Commander Bonaparte. When I picked the recruits for the programme, they did better than the others. I felt a flash from some of them, none from others. The ones with the flash were always able to develop abilities. That was the start.'_

Winner nods. _'And the middle?'_

_'Trial of process. At first they tried to make everyone the same. Bonaparte called it “remote viewing”. Sending our consciousness ahead of us, over vast distances, to spy on Rebel hide-aways. Only one ever managed it.'_

'Ask him who,' Toru says.

_'Who was it?'_

_'Reubus Omato,'_ Rzhevsky supplies easily. But then he pauses. _'I liked him,'_ he says then. _'He always had a good sense of humour. We were bunk mates at Kiev Academy. At the end he hallucinated, constantly. Visions of the dead. He jumped from the roof of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I counted him as my third kill, but the truth is that he jumped. He was crying for his mother as he fell.'_

Only Winner's rapid breathing gives away his emotion on hearing that. Otherwise his face is impassive, even cold. _'Tell me more about the programme. How you ran the experiments.'_

_'Why?'_

_'Because I asked.'_

_'Why,'_ Rzhevsky asks deliberately, _'did you ask?'_

Dawes shakes his head. 'Tell Winner not to take the bait.'

Toru presses the microphone on. 'Quatre, don't bring up Preventers. Move him back into the details.'

 _'I'll not be telling you,'_ Winner says. _'You know all you need to know. How did you run the experiments.'_

'Why is he doing it like this?' Micheko asks quietly. 'This wasn't the plan at all. He's dictating terms to Rzhevsky. It shouldn't be working.'

'It wouldn't work for the Normals,' Dawes says. 'Maybe there's a pecking order with Newtypes. We've been theorising that Winner's a powerful one.'

'What did you call him?' Toru interrupts.

'Not him. Us.' Dawes screws his mouth to the side. 'I don't mean nothing by it. It's just a nickname going around. There's Newtypes, and the rest of us... the Normals.'

'There's not a pecking order,' Toru says crossly. 'And don't ever say that in front of Mr Winner.'

'He doesn't say it to be mean, Toru,' Micheko protests.

'What, you've heard it too?'

'It's just a thing people are saying.'

'Which people?'

 _'Electro-chemical baths,'_ Rzhevsky says, drawing their attention back to the window. _'Shock therapy. LSD. Mushrooms. I was rather fond of the mushrooms. Did you ever try them?'_

 _'Yes,'_ Winner replies shortly. _'I never reacted well.'_

_'It's no matter. Our abilities don't work very well when we're happy, you know. Had you ever realised that? We're at our most able when we're dangerous. Enraged. Frightened. And at our best when we're wounded, when we're seeking--'_

_'Vengeance,'_ Winner completes his sentence. Heavily he says, _'Yes. I know.'_

_'Once we stumbled on that, all stimuli were aimed at achieving that state. Hunger. Solitary confinement. Caning. Sexual assault. Threats to loved ones, or innocents.'_

'That's so awful,' Micheko whispers.

 _'How did you learn control?'_ Winner presses him.

_'Some didn't. They died, one way or another. The rest of us just fumbled our way into it.'_

Toru licks his lips. 'Ask him how many of them there were.'

 _'How many of you?'_ Winner repeats. _'And when did Treize Khushrenada involve himself?'_

'Good,' Toru murmurs. 'Good call.'

 _'How many is not an easy answer,'_ Rzhevsky tells him. _'Thirteen when I first started assisting Commander Bonaparte. I found him nine more, but three left--'_

_'Left or died?'_

_'Either,'_ Rzhevsky says blandly. _'The numbers were constantly shifting. Rarely less than twenty. Never more than... say, fifty.'_

'Fifty!' Dawes gives himself a shake. 'If he's only killed forty-six, and assuming the experiments were cycling people through, that could be a high number. Ask him about records, Craft.'

'Records, Quatre. Find out if there are any extant records.'

 _'There are no records, naturally,'_ Winner says.

Rzhevsky inclines his head. _'Naturally.'_

_'I asked about Khushrenada.'_

_'Oh, he was a candidate. But he had no natural-- or, shall we say, unnatural-- talent, latent or otherwise. I turned him away personally. But he sent others. Some had the flash. Some did not. The only thing that made him interesting was how he handled the rejects. I never saw any of them at his side again.'_

Winner's chin comes up at that. Slowly he leans back in his chair. _'He was using you to suss out the Newtypes. He deliberately surrounded himself with Newtypes.'_

_'Apparently he had high hopes for the programme. He did bring us good stock. I have always considered it a shame that I didn't get to so many of those who made it to his inner circle. The Lightning Count was top of my list for many years. I can only dream that the exile community will die out quickly. Or perhaps Merquise will build himself a new laser and destroy them all.'_

Winner's eyes jump to the window. To Toru behind it. Toru swallows roughly on a tight throat. It's just a little shock, to hear his father's name. He tells himself it means nothing. Rzhevsky doesn't know a son sits just fifteen feet away. And-- it's a kind of fact. It is a fact, that his father did those things, was guilty of those crimes. No-one will ever know what happens on Mars.

'The Khushrenada thing is a tangent,' Dawes decides abruptly. 'Get him back on the programme. Ask him how he developed his own ability.'

Toru coughs to clear his throat. He holds the microphone to his lips. 'Ask him about developing his own ability. How does he use it to locate other Newtypes?'

Winner drums his fingers on the table. He sits forward again, but doesn't speak right away. He purses his lips. _'All right,'_ he says then. _'I want you to talk about your own ability.'_

 _'Do you?'_ Rzhevsky asks him gravely. _'True. I don't have to be a mind-reader. It takes no supernatural forces to see you are reluctant at best.'_

 _'Trust me,'_ Winner says again.

Toru renews his grip on the microphone. The glow is stronger again. He's sure of it this time.

Whatever that means, it makes Rzhevsky nod slow acquiescence. _'What do you want to know?'_

'How does it work?' Micheko asks promptly.

_'How did you develop it? Your own ability was inborn, but not the control to wield it. How did you learn it?'_

_'Not_ learn _it._ Unlock _it.'_ Rzhevsky points to Winner. _'You don't care. You know it's different for everyone. Ask what you really want to know. Ask what those Preventers there really want you to ask.'_

Winner blinks once. _'How do you find them.'_

_'It's no great secret. We could all do it, you know. The Flash is the beacon, but it's not like our abilities, present at all times. It only happens in the proximity of another Newtype. Like calls to like. Why do you suppose that is?'_

_'Not to enable our eradication,'_ Winner says pointedly.

Rzhevsky smiles coldly. _'On the contrary. To enable us to breed.'_

Winner rubs his chin, covers his mouth. _'And where did you come up with this notion?'_

_'Isn't it obvious? You see why it was so dangerous for even a few to escape. Who knows what a second generation of Newtypes will be capable of? A third and fourth generation? The danger only dies if we do.'_

Winner is looking at the window again. He's in range; he might be reading Toru, but Toru feels nothing. Nothing but numb. Yes. Who knew. And who knew why, in light of that, this breeding idea, why Toru can see the glow of Newtypes near each other, except... except to recognise a Newtype. A visual Flash. And he can see it because his father was a Newtype, and maybe his mother too, and that makes him a product of something no-one can predict. A second generation danger.

Winner stands. He comes to the window, eyes level, unerringly finding Toru even through the one-way glass. He stands there for a moment, his finger catching on the metal rim. His eyes drop low. Then he turns about, to put his back to the window.

 _'How do you locate them,'_ he says. _'No more games, no more misdirection. Tell me the truth.'_

_'Am I not? How do you find them?'_

_'It's not just vicinity. There's more to it. What do you do? How do you know where to look?'_

_'Why? Is there someone you want to find?'_

_'Tell me,'_ Winner says icily.

 _'Hypnogogia,'_ Rzhevsky answers. _'Threshold consciousness. Project the mind and seek--'_

_'You're lying.'_

Rzhevsky stills with his mouth still open. They stare at each other, seconds ticking by.

 _'I see,'_ Rzhevsky says slowly. _'How... convenient this gift must be for you.'_

 _'It has its moments,'_ Winner agrees softly. _'Any other answers you want to try?'_

Rzhevsky begins to smile. He laughs, a rasp of bitterness. _'Read my mind, brother. Take whatever you like. My story is yours.'_

 

**

 

'He doesn't know how he does it,' Winner says again.

'I guess I just don't understand how that's possible,' Micheko replies cautiously. 'It just seems naïve to me to believe him that he doesn't know how he performs an act that's been the central driving force of his adult life.'

'How do painkillers work?' Winner retorts. 'How does electricity? Radiation and penicillin? No-one knew how any of those worked until someone discovered the rules. Rzhevsky knows that it works and that's all he needs in order to use it. He finds Newtypes because he knows he can.'

'That sounds a lot more like philosophy than science,' Dawes mutters tiredly, rubbing at his eyes.

'Yes,' Winner says flatly. 'But ask me the same thing and I don't have much more to tell you. There are no known scientific explanations for my knowing that you're thinking about calling your wife before it gets too late in Brussels, but I know to hand you a phone nonetheless.' He extends a slip of plastic. 'Shall I read off the number for you, or have we sufficiently covered this topic?'

'That's sufficient,' Toru says, intervening at last to elide the uneasy way Dawes avoided even touching Winner's mobile. 'We're sorry to harp on it. I know it's frustrating. It's frustrating for us too. Don't get yourself into a feedback loop by reacting to us.'

'Feedback loop?' Micheko asks curiously.

Winner is caught by surprise, too. He tucks his phone back in his pocket, and takes the open sofa by the window, slumping back wearily. 'Did you just deduce that?' he asks. 'Yes, of course you did. And I suppose it will go into the official report. Yes. Of course it will.'

Dawes is shaking his head. 'I'm going to check they've returned Rzhevsky safely,' he mutters, and leaves without anything further.

Winner watches him go. 'They're forcing that cancer treatment on him. They got a court injunction to perform life-saving measures.'

'On Rzhevsky?' Toru takes a seat of his own. Six hours of questions, of circular answers that never really reached a destination. He doesn't even know what he's going to write in that final report. Since it was his idea to do this, the results-- the lack of results-- are on him.

'It's not a lack of results,' Winner tells him abruptly. 'You know far more than I would ever have voluntarily told you. You know enough to start a quiet search for likely candidates. You have the profile; you showed it to me months ago. You have Rzhevsky's little tips and suggestions. Somewhere up the chain from Commander Po someone will issue a new secret order. Within a month there's going to be a compound somewhere quiet where Academy students will sit with electrodes on their heads while they trank on home-cooked cannabis.'

'Quatre,' Toru starts.

'If he wants to die quietly of cancer that's his choice. I'm not saying I agree or disagree and I know that ethically Preventers had no choice but to offer to treat him, but to force it on him? You caught him. You stopped him. Putting him through slow agony--'

'Is just,' Micheko says. 'It is about choice, isn't it. He took the choice to live or die away from other people. It's only justice that he doesn't get to make a final choice of his own.'

'And what will be the moral justification for creating Newtypes while Preventers decides whether or not to inject them with a drug that will block their abilities if they start to get dangerous?'

'Quatre, you need to take a break.' Toru stands to put himself physically between them, cutting it off before it can get heated. 'I can drive you back to the hotel. I bet you could use a rest.'

Winner covers his mouth. When his head drops back to the sofa cushion, his eyes close and stay that way. 'Forgive me,' he says at length. 'I'm afraid I'm-- I'm tired.'

'Come on.' Toru offers his hand. 'Let's pick up some food and just sit for a while, okay? You've been putting up with a bunch of us all day, on top of Rzhevsky.'

'Yes.' Winner leverages to his feet with Toru's help. He hesitates over Micheko. 'Forgive my outburst,' he asks her tentatively.

'Of course, Mr Winner.' Micheko rises to see them off. 'Don't worry about it. We can pick up tomorrow. We shouldn't have pushed to do it in one marathon session.'

'I think I'm the one who rushed the timetable with bad behaviour.' Winner actually goes so far as to touch her, cupping a hand to her slim shoulder. 'That's not my intent,' he says. 'I hope you know that.'

'Come on,' Toru repeats, and draws him away.

The drive out of town is silent. Well, not silent; Winner has his iPod on, and the music is especially loud, the volume maxed out, but he sits curled away from Toru, staring out his window from behind those dark sunglasses. Toru tries to concentrate on the road and nothing else, keeping his mind free from distraction. But traffic is bad, the early start of rush hour from the City's ritual abandonment, and after inching along for seven excruciating kilometres, Toru is bored with that. No matter how hard he shoves, he can't keep from thinking about the interview with Rzhevsky.

'Say it,' Winner murmurs.

Toru clears his throat. 'The last time we were in London you said you might be over-using your abilities. Maybe that's why you're feeling strung-out. We tried to keep the numbers low, but you were basically in range of four people all day long.'

'It's not the most pleasant activity.' Winner sighs, and settles back in his seat. 'She thinks about you constantly. If that's of any help to you.'

Micheko. Toru's neck goes hot, and he rubs it. 'Um,' he says.

'You worry too much,' Winner says then. 'You shouldn't. It will age you too quickly. I was a worrier. Look at me now.'

Toru glances at him. 'Was that a joke?'

'Only a little.' They only advance two car-lengths before the light because of an overflowing turn lane, and Winner blinks as the light goes red again. 'It wasn't always as horrible as he made it sound.'

'What wasn't?' Toru taps the break, flexing his legs. 'The Newtype programme?'

'Yes.' Winner picked at a fingernail. 'H, the man who designed my Gundam. He was not a kind man, but he was never unnecessarily hard. My father... my father was a hard man. The only sense of home I ever had was in the Rebellion.'

'My parents were Specials officers. In Rzhevsky's programme. So they would have gone through everything he described.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. I never picked up any specific images or memories of them in training.'

'Look—'

'Toru... would you mind very much... would you mind staying for a while? For supper? If you don't have to rush back to work.'

He risks a sideways look just as the light turns green again. 'Sure. I don't mind at all.'

'Thank you,' Winner says softly. 'I appreciate that very much. I appreciate everything you've done for me, tried to do for me. Even if I sometimes act it, I'm not ungrateful.'

They actually make it through the junction this time. Toru guns it a little to get through, but then they're moving, and he eases into the fast lane. 'Look,' he repeats, 'what you did today was huge. Preventers know that. We made huge progress and we have so much more to go on now. And Sally said she's in talks with the Executive Office about your immunity. I think this is going to wrap up well. And maybe faster than we thought. Once we have enough to work with we can finish with Rzhevsky on our own. Maybe that will be enough that we won't have to talk to you anymore. Or maybe we can do it from St John's. I can ask. Or get you set up properly here, if you want. Last time you were thinking about trying to stay, weren't you? We can try. You know I'll help. But my point is that this will be over soon. I know it was bad. But it's almost through.'

Winner is quiet for a minute, as Toru takes a big round-about that puts them on the path out of downtown. He makes a low sound, as if he were trying to speak and can't. Then he coughs shortly.

'Perhaps after supper you could help me meditate,' he says, and turns his face to the window again. 'I haven't quite got the breathing down.'

'Absolutely,' Toru agrees. 'It's my pleasure.'

 

**

 

Toru wakes when Dawes goes in for the shower. He rolls to grab at the little digital clock. Five AM. 'Urgh,' he gurgles, and buries his face in the pillow.

But only for a moment. He's never been one for falling back to sleep once awakened. And five is later than he usually sleeps. It's probably jet lag, catching him up. And the late night meditating with Winner. Not a substitute for real sleep, especially after a week fuelled largely by coffee.

Which he avoids, when he heads downstairs for the breakfast buffet. He does stock his plate with proteins and fibres, and drinks fresh juice instead of caffeine. He stuffs an apple into his pocket for later, and fills a mug with hot tea from the bar. Winner will want it, and he can stay in his quiet room if he likes rather than come down and risk an early morning confrontation with other guests.

He passes Micheko on the stairs. 'Good morning,' she says brightly, her teeth gleaming white as her mouth curves up for him. 'Sleep well?'

'I think so. You?'

'Not bad. I miss my own bed, though.'

She probably doesn't mean anything by it, but she stands there with her hair damp from washing, spread long and silky over her shoulders, and she doesn't have the shapeless dark blazer that all Preventers wear, and her white linen shirt is open at the neck, cream against her creamy skin. He misses her bed, too, for all he was only in it once. He misses being able to touch that skin with his lips, to smell her hair with no-one else nearby to catch them.

He tries to swallow from a dry mouth. 'They're out of yoghurt,' he says inanely.

'Oh.' Her grin grows. 'Okay.'

'Um—' He hefts the tea. 'Just going to wake up Quatre. We need an early start today. Rzhevsky's radiation treatment is at four, and we need some solid hours with him.'

'I know,' she tells him, a teasing note accompanying the poke of her finger at his stomach. Reflexively he sucks in his muscles. 'Don't be long, then.'

'Right.' She brushes past him, her shoulder catching against his shirtfront, her hand trailing over his, for just a moment in the narrow stairwell. It creaks softly after her. Toru reminds himself to breathe. 'Right,' he mutters, and climbs.

There's no light under Winner's door, so he knocks gently. 'Hello?' he calls quietly. 'Quatre, are you up? It's me.' He waits a good thirty seconds for an answer before he knocks again. 'I have a cup of tea for you. If you don't mind, I can just leave it for you. But we want to be on the road by six.'

No answer still. He has a keycard. It swipes green, and he depresses the latch slowly. 'Coming in,' he calls. 'You awake? Quatre?' He steps in, blinking at the darkness as his eyes adjust. 'Hello?'

He's not in the room. Or at least not in the bed. And if he slept there, there's no sign of it. Toru puts the tea on the bedside table, and crosses the room for the efficiency. 'Quatre?'

That's empty, too. The sink and the bath are both dry. And when he checks the closet, it's empty of the suitcase Toru knows should be there.

He grabs his mobile out, dialling Micheko. 'Is he down there?' he demands, as soon as she accepts the call. He flings back the sheets, just to check. They're tucked under, still fresh from yesterday's make-up. He goes for the window next, yanking back the curtains. The weak dawn light blinds him momentarily, but the sight of the garden beneath yields no insight. Empty.

 _'Who?'_ Micheko asks him. _'Dawes? Not yet.'_

'Quatre. He's not in his room. I don't think he's been here for hours. You didn't authorise travel?'

 _'No. He's gone?'_ He hears a scrape of wood and breathing. _'I'll check with the front desk,'_ she says briskly. _'Stay on the line.'_

He sets the phone on speaker and lays it on the table. Now he hunts for clues in earnest, dropping to the floor to peer under the bed, under the bureau. No sign of struggle. Nothing out of place. The tea set that came with the room has half a cup of water in it, but it's not hot to the touch, unused. The lamps have no obvious bugs, the window is still locked shut, and there's a thin icy line of frost on the sill that argues there's no tampering there. Nothing--

Except for two envelopes lying atop the concierge booklet. Toru switches on the overhead light.

One is addressed to Toru. And one is addressed to Trowa.

He glances at his phone, still glowing green with an active call. He can hear muffled voices from Micheko's end. Toru bites his lip, already hating himself, already knowing what his decision is. He grabs the envelope for Trowa, and stuffs it into the inside pocket of his jacket, hiding it away.

 _'He checked out,'_ Micheko announces, making him jump. It's only the phone, but he can hear the stairwell creaking at the end of the hall, as she comes running back up. _'Last night at two. He left his key with the night clerk and said he didn't need it any more. They called him a cab and he left. He didn't say anything about where he was going or why. Why would he go?_ How _could he go? He can barely stand to be around people, and there's no way he could get out of the country on his own-- this makes no damn sense--'_

'No,' Toru says. 'No, it doesn't make any sense at all.'


	12. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'It would look like we've been infiltrated,' Sally says grimly. 'And that would kick this up the chain in a very bad way, and I'm not ready to open an investigation into a man who may or may not have actively been spying on Preventers.'_

Sally stretches out her hand. 'Give me the note.'

It's there on the desk, folded between plastic sheets. Toru hands it over silently. Sally holds it to the light, reads it in one slow and steady glare. She places it very precisely back on the shiny wood.

'Did you know?' she asks him.

'No,' Toru retorts hotly, the denial just springing out of his tight chest, right past his determination not to rise to provocation. 'And I don't deserve that, especially in front of them!'

Micheko is staring hard at the ground, but Toru can see her jaw is clenched. Dawes is impassive, but he's not looking at Toru at all.

Sally bends over the desk, resting flat on her palms. 'You're aware how it looks.'

'He says in the note he's sorry. Why would he apologise to me about what this is going to do to my career if I was in on it and helping him? This screws me and he knew it.' Toru makes himself take a deep breath. 'You shouldn't be detaining me here asking what I knew. You should be sending me back out there to look for him.'

'You don't give orders and you definitely don't give lip, Craft.' Sally stands up to her full height, which puts her equal with Toru's eyes. He shuffles, only then aware of how aggressively he'd been standing, ready to fight, his fists clenched. 'Where's Barton?' she asks him then, and his back goes right back up.

'In Paris,' Micheko answers, though she quails a little when Sally swings to her. 'He was the first call we made.'

'And we trust his answer?'

'We didn't give him any idea what we were calling about,' Dawes says diffidently. 'All we asked was if he'd made it back and could he contact us if he had any questions. We just confirmed he was there.'

'Not whether Quatre was trying to get to him.'

'There's no way to ask that without tipping that he's disappeared.'

'And bring Barton screaming back up here,' Micheko adds.

'Would he? Maybe this was the plan all along.'

Uncomfortable silence greets that. Toru almost speaks, but doesn't. He hasn't told anyone about the note in his pocket, addressed to Barton. A note speaks pretty strongly to the notion that Barton didn't know. If the content is anything like what Winner wrote to Toru, then Barton's in for an ugly shock.

_Toru,_

_I hope you believe that I don't find this an easy letter to write. As I hope that I haven't caused you any undue distress. By now you will know that I've gone. Please don't search for me. You won't know where to look, and I won't be found._

_I'm sure it will seem as though I'm running from my obligation to Preventers, this bargain we've made. I'm not, but I understand it will be seen that way. It's far simpler than that. Preventers may have the best intentions, and I can admit to my bias enough to write those words. But I still believe that whatever the intent, the reality will be only suffering for those who have already suffered enough. Which is why I feel I must go, and go now, before Preventers succeed in what you're trying to do. If you use Rzhevsky to create your own Newtype programme, I can't do anything to stop you. But I can't continue to facilitate you in this goal._

_I write this knowing you'll be obliged to show this to your Command. I have nothing to say to them beyond my regret at the necessity of my deception. I swear that it was not premeditated, but rather an impulse. Not to say that I undertake it lightly or without deep thought, but that I didn't know what I would do-- even that I could walk away-- until I was in that room with Ivan Rzhevsky. Or perhaps it was even later than that. When you drove me back to this hotel. I think it was then, really. And I only explain this much not for your Command, but for your understanding, Toru. You've become important to me. Our friendship, if I can presume to call it a friendship, is important to me. I hope you believe my sincerity when I say that I am sorry. I know this will bring you trouble, after all you've done for me. I'm sorry, Toru. I hope one day we meet again so that I can say it in person._

_Quatre  
_

**

 

'Maybe it was the plan all along,' Micheko says quietly.

Toru stuffs a pair of socks to the bottom of his suitcase. 'What was the plan all along?'

'Barton. Storming out the way he did back in Brussels. Maybe he was just pretending.'

'Pretending what.' Toru grabs his soiled clothes in the bag he'd been collecting, and tosses that to the case, too. He slams it shut and locks it.

'To be angry at Mr Winner. Maybe they just faked the fight. Barton goes off pretending to have a huff. A few days later Mr Winner runs away from London. Maybe they're planning to meet up somewhere.'

'It doesn't wash,' Toru says. He swipes a handful of change from his bedside table and slips it into his pocket. 'You're forgetting about the boyfriend. I don't think Barton would leave his partner behind.'

'Maybe he would. He really loves Mr Winner, doesn't he?'

'Maybe, but I'm not sure Barton knows that.' The last thing he collects is his case reader. He has to deliberately decide not to throw it against the wall. 'Or if he does, I think he's too afraid to do it. It's got to be scary, giving up a good life with someone you care about, to risk everything with someone like Quatre.'

Micheko cocks her head at him. 'You think?'

Toru shrugs uneasily. 'You've been around Quatre as much as I have. Whatever else you can say about him, he's not afraid of risks. He came to London to help us track down Rzhevsky. And he came back to Brussels to work with us again. You could call it logic, or part of that paranoia about what we'll do if he refuses, but I think at the core of it he's just not that afraid of the personal cost. Barton... is.'

Micheko sits on the edge of his bed. 'So what's the personal cost of jumping ship in the middle of an interrogation with nothing but a week's worth of clothes?'

Toru blows out a deep breath, and sits beside her. Her fingers lie next to his. Her small finger spreads wide, to touch his.

'Losing even the little bit of normal he has left,' Toru says. 'St John's is lonely, but it's still a home, a place he knows, a place he's lived for decades. If he goes back there now, we'll find him. And Barton. There's no hope now. So if you've got nothing left to lose, and you think you still have a choice to make about participating in something like this, a choice to stop something you don't believe in, there's nothing to stop you from making it.'

'I don't know, Toru. I think you're giving him too much credit.' Micheko squeezes his hand. 'Hear me out. I do believe his letter-- or at least the part of it that says he's sorry for what this does to you. But that he wasn't planning this all along? That's what doesn't wash. First he agrees to come here and then as soon as he's here he realises he was wrong all along, so very wrong that he has to literally go on the lam? People don't make radical decisions like that. They don't just abandon their entire lives without a better reason than a potential initiative Preventers may or may not ever pursue.'

'But he is a radical,' Toru protests. 'Maybe not the way we usually define it, but he is. Or was. He was a Gundam Pilot. And he still kind of lives in that mindset, where all this Newtype stuff is just playing out the rest of a war that's been over for twenty-two years. And if you're still fighting a war in your head that you passionately believe in, then you do make radical decisions. It's no worse running off now than it was when he was fifteen and leaving to join the Resistance.'

'It's no worse because it's no different,' Micheko points out. 'And it's not different because he's never tried to grow out of it. The war's beyond over. There's no excuse for acting otherwise. And you shouldn't protect him. That's what gets you in trouble, Toru, not anything he does.'

'He's a civilian consultant and we've been dragging him across the planet making threats against his peace and his freedom. At what point do we admit culpability?'

'For doing our jobs?' Micheko sighs, and stands. 'Let's check in on Dawes. He might have a lead on the cab company by now.'

'Bert here at the desk didn't actually call the cabbie,' Dawes tells them when they go downstairs together. He's standing in the small sunroom that doubles as the lobby, and Sally is with him. Dawes is only in his suit, the nearly universal Preventers uniform when they're on travel and involved in a case, but Sally is wearing their official emblem, the leather jacket and olive pants. The hotel staff are eying her nervously, and now the rest of the Preventers as well, having figured out that their company must be involved as well. Before, they were just another group of travellers, albeit ones with some strange requirements. Now-- they're trouble.

'They have a standard list,' Sally explains, showing them a leather-bound booklet of laminated pages. Toru takes it. Not just local taxi companies, but other amenities as well; the nearest train station, and groceries, cinemas, churches, restaurants, tourist attractions. Toru frowns over it, flipping the pages.

'We've called in a warrant to dump the phone line,' Dawes said. 'It'll be a few hours, but at least we'll know what company he called. After that, we can track down the driver.'

'What are the odds that the cab is a fake-out?' Toru asks.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, even on good days he struggles with strangers. Not to say that he couldn't do it, but he'd only get so far at night. There's no-where open at two in the morning that a man with his limitations could go-- he's not exactly capable of patronising a night-club, even to hide from us. Would he just go somewhere quiet and try to ride it out until he could come up with a better plan? Micheko already called it, sir. It's an island. The only way he can get out of Britain is the same way he got on, and he had us to help him then. If he wants a flight out now, he'll have to go through the same process, and we flagged the system as soon as we realised he was missing. There's a lot of really easy markers to watch for. He'll know that. So why not go to ground somewhere and wait?'

'That still leaves us looking for a needle in a haystack,' Sally says, unimpressed.

'A haystack with just as many hours of lead-time,' Dawes adds, but he looks thoughtful, at least.

'Churches would be fairly empty,' Micheko notes, catching on. 'And a radical like Mr Winner would be fairly up-to-date on breaking and entering.' She returns Toru's swift grin with a small smile. We could put a notice out to the local police. It may not increase our chances of finding him by much, but we could get lucky and catch a report.'

'If he's looking for an alternate way out of London, it reasons it would take him a while to pull it together,' Dawes contributes diffidently. 'He'd need cash or untraceable credit. He didn't have much of that on him when he left. He might be calling Barton for that. Or his family. We know he's got a lawyer who's connected to the Winners.'

'Barton's his legal advocate,' Toru says. 'It wouldn't be hard to trace funds, if Winner tries to get money dispensed from the accounts we know about.'

Sally nods sharply. 'All right,' she agrees. 'Let's get started. We'll base out of the London offices for now, until we can confirm Winner's left the country. I'll need to be back in Brussels by tomorrow night. Let's get as much done as we can in that time.'

 

**

 

But there is no activity, at least not of the legal kind. None in the long morning wait, though Toru doesn't expect there to be. Winner is careful and knows that the morning will be the first flurry of searching. But by that logic Winner should have spent his first hours of freedom securing his needs, and there's no sign that he did that, or even could have done it. The banks would have been closed, and though he could have used a cash point anywhere, none of his accounts were accessed. Unless he has accounts they don't know about. Which is possible, certainly, maybe even probable, given the way Winner has lived all these years, cut off from his family, from Barton. But money just isn't that difficult to trace, not in a city loaded to the square inch with cameras and facial recognition technology and database cross-checkers and fingerprinting and identification verification. There's no sign at all that Winner is going to make it that easy on them.

Which leads back to the question of how in hell he's going to make it easy on himself. Even if he's got hidden accounts and some way of accessing them, there's still the matter of getting out of the City, and getting out of England, getting off the island. He can't do it awake. Toru believes that to be a fact, after flying three times with Winner, and seeing him that day in the boardroom in Preventers HQ. There's no faking that level of distress. But how could Winner trust a total stranger not to take advantage of him while completely sedated, when he barely trusts Toru not to do that?

That's not entirely fair, is it. He does trust Toru. Trusts him enough to leave that letter. The letter for Trowa Barton.

It's like it's burning a hole in his pocket. Who the hell knows what kind of information could be in it. The answers to every question he's got. Where Winner has gone-- what he's planning to do when he gets there. What one particular thing set him running. But it's probably none of that, and that's why Toru doesn't read it. It's probably words that only have meaning for Barton. Love, and missed opportunities. Those words aren't meant for Toru's eyes, and Winner trusted him enough to have them in his possession and not read them, not let anyone else read them until he could pass them to their rightful owner.

Well. There's one idea.

And as soon as he thinks it that's all he can think of. Why not go to Barton? They can't really do anything in London but waste time. And if Winner doesn't have money, then eventually he'll find himself a friend.

Toru thunks his head back to the wall. 'Ohhh, damn,' he says.

'What?' Micheko asks.

'I need to see Ivan Rzhevsky.' He looks about the office, toward the office Sally is sharing with the local commanders. 'We need permission to interview him again.'

'Rzhevsky?' Dawes repeats curiously. 'What for?'

He scrambles for a pen out of the cup on their borrowed desk, and whatever scrap of paper he can find. He grabs one from the recycling bin and uses the back. He writes _Any Newtypes left in London?_ and _Did he really figure out how he finds them?_ and he takes a sprint across the cubicle-strewn floor of the office. He hears Micheko and Dawes coming after them, but he doesn't slow to wait for them to catch him up. Sally's on her phone, standing at the window, and misses his wave for attention. He's not quite bold enough to barge in unannounced-- not after being reamed out for losing his one and only charge just hours ago-- but impatience and a growing sense of urgency don't hold him idle for long. Just before the other two agents reach his side, Toru raps sharply on the glass wall of Sally's office, and he holds his notes up to the window.

Her head whips around, inside. Go away, she mouths, and waves him off, but Toru motions insistently to his paper, and he sees her sigh. She comes close enough to read it, bending near. Her eyes slide up to his.

A moment later she's hanging up the phone and opening the door to let him in. 'This had better mean what I think it means,' she says grimly. 'Quatre lied to us?'

Toru sucks in his lower lip, grinds it between his teeth. 'I'm beginning to think so,' he admits. 'I'm beginning to think I'm an idiot to have missed it. He cut Rzhevsky off in the middle of a sentence. I could call up the transcript, but I think Rzhevsky was right on the verge of actually telling us the truth, and Quatre cut him off.'

'You didn't pursue it?' Sally demanded.

Toru shook his head glumly as Micheko and Dawes shuffled awkwardly at his back. 'I took Winner at his word,' he answers, and takes the responsibility on himself for it, too, because he's the one who knows Winner best, and the other two take their cues from him. He hadn't protested it, and when he defends Winner, the other two listen. 'I was duped. But now that I think about it, it was there in front of us the whole time. He kept telling Rzhevsky to trust him not to let Preventers get their hands on something that would allow the Newtype abomination to be replicated. And he didn't. As soon as Rzhevsky started to tell him the truth about how to locate other Newtypes, at our urging, Quatre got the truth, and immediately hid it from us.

'Quatre could read it off him,' Toru explains to Sally. 'He needed Rzhevsky to be thinking about it, thinking about it in detail, but once he had what he needed he didn't want Preventers to know how it worked. So he said that Rzhevsky was lying and we took him at his word.'

'But if Quatre does know how Rzhevsky finds other Newtypes, he could have done it himself, and he'd have help getting out of the country,' she surmises. 'Help we'd have no way of tracing.'

'Maybe. Maybe not.' Toru turns expectantly to Dawes. 'Haven't you always thought Rzhevsky had a list of known Newtypes he was never able to get to? People like Quatre Winner who were protected or too famous or too well-hidden? If we can get him to finally cough up this list of his than we can figure out who Quatre would be able to locate.'

'Get inside.' Sally pulls him in by the arm. 'You, too, Walker. Dawes, get the door.' She sits on the edge of her desk, tossing down her phone with a grim look. Dawes, at the door, crosses his arms over his chest uncomfortably, watching their Commander.

'This is classified,' Sally tells them then. 'Dawes knows this, but the two of you shouldn't. And won't be letting on that you've been told.'

Micheko straightens in place. Toru, about to himself, tries not to do it, but he can't help tensing. Junior agents don't often get hold of information above their classification level, and if it's more than Top Secret, that puts it into a special category of national security that Toru hasn't been read into or properly background checked for, and that's a lot of rule-breaking for one morning.

'Tell them,' Sally says. 'I'll go on record if we ever need to.'

Dawes screws his mouth to one side, and exhales hard. 'Rzhevsky did have a list,' he says. 'We doubt it's comprehensive, but it's more than we ever knew. Individuals from Alliance, OZ, Rebellion, White Fang, the Discovery Corporation, McCaffery Group, and from an association calling themselves Li Fong.'

There are names in that list Toru hasn't heard before. His stomach sinks.

'How many Newtypes are in London?' he asks. 'Wait. Ishaq Khosa?'

Dawes looks to Sally. She says, 'As to London-- there may or may not be Newtypes here. As Dawes said, Rzhevsky's list probably isn't comprehensive, and I don't think he even knows. Ishaq Khosa... Ishaq Khosa is a longer story.'

'But you know who he is.'

'I know he was a Preventer,' Sally says.

'And you knew when I asked you,' Toru says, not asks, Dawes. Dawes nods, not quite meeting his eyes. 'You knew he was a Newtype. He's on Rzhevsky's list.'

'Yes,' Dawes says.

'Is he dead?'

'No.'

'Then Rzhevsky just somehow missed him? Did you ever follow up on it?' It occurs him even as he's asking. 'It's not in the official case file. You couldn't ask, not without drawing attention to the fact that a former Preventer is a Newtype. It would look like we've--'

'Been infiltrated,' Sally says grimly. 'And that would kick this up the chain in a very bad way, and I'm not ready to open an investigation into a man who may or may not have actively been spying on Preventers.'

There are so many things he wants to say to that that his tongue actually freezes for a second. But just as quickly all of them die into silence. Because he doesn't know. Maybe Ishaq Khosa is a Quatre Winner-- someone who genuinely wants to be left alone. But maybe he's an Ivan Rzhevsky: someone who wants to cause harm. Maybe he's a Milliardo Peacecraft, who can't be trusted not to harm others. Maybe he's a Thorulf Peacecraft, who didn't know one way or the other and got out before he found out, or was put under a microscope in a dark cell, but there's no way of knowing, and suddenly Toru is very, very grateful for that.

Toru blows out a long breath from pursed lips. He says, 'I still want to re-interview Rzhevsky. Ask him about Quatre. Maybe he knows where Quatre would go. Who he would go to.'

'He won't tell, though,' Dawes points out. 'Would he? Why would he?'

'Because it's Quatre. Because one way or another Rzhevsky still thinks they're brothers.'

'That was the premise for getting him to talk to Mr Winner,' Micheko says. 'It's not going to be motivation for him to tell us where Mr Winner's gone. If he knows.'

'Then we lie,' Toru counters. 'We tell him Quatre's disappeared and he's in danger. That's not even untrue, when it comes to it.'

Sally is shaking her head. 'I'm not sure he'd help even then. He might be upset by it, but his ultimate goal is the destruction of the Newtypes. If Quatre died out there, he'd count it as a win one way or another.'

'Not if that win means Preventers have the means to do exactly what he doesn't want us to do. Start that program of Newtype development.' Toru points at Sally's desk, and the case files spread open on it. 'If Quatre's so paranoid about it that he'd try to flee the country, and Rzhevsky's so paranoid about it that he'd spend decades hunting and killing his own kind to stop it ever happening, then it's going to be one hell of a motive to move him in whatever direction we want him moving. Look, we all sat there while Quatre talked to him yesterday. We've got enough we could make a start. We walk in there, we tell him we're removing him to a secure facility to work with our recruits.'

Sally looks to Dawes. So does Toru, hoping he's right, hoping he's being convincing. Dawes doesn't looked convinced, doesn't look certain. He lifts his shoulders, spreads his hands. 'Maybe,' he says.

'I don't think we can bluff him,' Micheko says bluntly. 'Short of putting him in a car and driving him somewhere, and what's the point in that? We'd have to actually pull the trigger and we don't have a real gun.'

'The bluff isn't the point,' Toru tells her, slashing the air with his hand. 'The point is our capability. He already knows we can do it. He's been waiting for us to do it. In fact-- in fact I think he's going to think-- I think he's going to think we're the ones who got rid of Quatre. And maybe we should let him think that. That Quatre was uncooperative, didn't play along, and so we got rid of him. No-- he discovered we were going to, and he got out of town before we could. We need to keep the Newtype angle at front.'

This time Dawes is nodding. 'Yes,' he says. 'And we give him a mole.'

Sally catches on. 'A sympathy play?'

'Someone who thinks it was wrong. Someone who just wants to find their friend, and doesn't care about this Newtype crap.'

For a second he thinks it's going to fly. He knows he's lost it, though, when Sally's teeth bite into her lower lip. 'No,' she says, as Toru's stomach sinks. 'No,' she repeats, waving him down even as he tries to protest. 'No more Ivan Rzhevsky, no more plotting with Newtypes. We already gambled and lost on this. We'll find Quatre through old-fashioned detective work. Dawes, follow up on the hotel LUDs and find that cab. Toru, get in touch with Barton again, and have the Paris branch stake out his house and his work. I still find it hard to believe that Quatre's not going to try and get in touch with him. Walker, I want a private word with you.'

'Commander,' Toru tries. 'Can I at least see the list? Rzhevsky's list of Newtypes he didn't kill.'

'It's bad enough you know it exists.' Sally picks up her mobile phone and is dialling without looking at him, a sign Toru takes as guilty conscience. They both know that's the best lead, just as much as he knows she's right. He can't legally see it. That doesn't mean someone won't be looking at it, even if no-one can ever admit it. He can live with that. He takes a deep breath, and nods his acceptance.

'Thank you for your time,' Toru says, and leaves. He holds the door for Dawes, and looks back long enough to see Micheko standing deferentially in place as Sally makes her call, whatever it is. He doesn't linger long enough to watch them talk, but he does wonder what Sally has to say that can be said to one junior agent and not another. Unless it's questions about Winner. Sally can't really believe he helped Winner run? Bad enough he'd let Winner dupe him.

'God,' he groans. 'I am a dupe.'

Dawes cants a curious eye at him as they reach their borrowed desks again. 'What?'

'Winner.' Toru slumps into his chair. 'We meditated last night. He hates meditating.'

'Not following.' Dawes props a pen between his teeth. 'You teach that class on meditation back at HQ.'

'And I was teaching Quatre. I thought it would help him control the issues he was having, being near so many people. But he doesn't like it. And last night he asked if we could do it. I assumed it was--' Bonding. He'd assumed it was something nice for them to do together, a thing friends might do together. The kind of-- well, fatherly things Winner does sometimes. 'But he must have been using it like the thing in the pool. Doing whatever it is Rzhevsky does, to locate other Newtypes. I sat two feet away from him while he plotted this whole thing.'

'Well, least we have an idea how he did it,' Dawes reasons. 'And the timeline.'

'Not much more than we already knew. He really threw this together.' Toru sits up far enough to dig his elbows into the hard plastic surface of his desk. 'What's taking them so long on the phone details?'

'Backlog. Normally they move Preventers to the head of the queue, but they had more urgent cases, and ours is just a missing man, isn't it. But Commander says to push it, so we push it.' Dawes puts his phone to his ear. 'You reckon there'll be any hits on Barton?'

'No,' Toru says shortly. He scratches his scalp, pulls his ponytail tight under the elastic binding it. 'Maybe we could interview him, though. I hate informational vacuums. Maybe he could give us some idea of places Winner likes, places he knows. They mentioned Spain, once. Maybe he'd try to get back to a place he'd find familiar. Or a safe house they knew from the Colony War. That might make the most sense-- a place likely to meet the same criteria he'd need now. Far from people, stocked with supplies for a long quiet stay, some means of communication with the outside world. Off the grid.'

'Sounds like sense to me.' Dawes held up a finger to halt conversation as his call was answered. 'Agent Dawes with Preventers London Office,' he introduces himself. 'Checking the status of my request. Just reminding you we're facing a time limit here. The longer we wait on this, the more chance we lose our man. Yeah. Yes. Thanks, I'll hold.' He looks to Toru. 'Passing me to a technician. We might get somewhere with this in time to save our careers from disciplinary action.'

Toru grimaces at that. 'Yours, maybe.'

Dawes grins at him. 'You're young. They expect mistakes; that's why you're junior rank for five years. Everyone gets a safety net.' He checks his watch. 'There any hot water in that kettle over there? I could stand a cuppa.'

'I'll get it.' Toru heaves himself to his feet and stalks to the break room down the hall. It feels good to move, even if it's just for this. His whole body is pins and needles, nerves all over, and all of them unsettled. He might not have a choice but telling Barton the truth about Winner's disappearing act, if only so they can gauge his reaction, but he expects an explosion of nuclear proportion. This is Barton's worst nightmare. Winner alone, on the run, no help but some nebulous idea of possible aid from some other crazy Newtype who might or might not be out there.

He makes three cups, in the hopes that Micheko will be done with whatever 'private' conversation she's having with Sally, and carries them back to their desks. The local agents are giving them a berth, politely nodding whenever they pass but otherwise uninterested in whatever they're here to do, and Toru feels exactly the same. Office exchanges are a frequent occurrence in Preventers, with cases that extend across the world and Space with numbing routine, and even when you have a home base it's rare to stay there your entire career. Toru knows Brussels will only be home for a few more years, at best, and that he's only been kept there this long because of his connection to Sally. He's not a good enough pilot for a Colony assignment, and somewhere in his gut he knows that's intentional. He's never wanted Space, never wanted to know what it was out there that drove his parents to do everything they did-- drove them to leave him, leave everything, behind. But he looks down at the mug he's carrying for Micheko, and finds himself inhaling on the hope that maybe there's a better reason for staying, now.

If he ever has the chance to sit down and think about it.

Or talk to her about it.

Which will not be now. She's back, yes, but talking to Dawes, not him, and though she beckons him excitedly near when he rounds the corner, it's all for business. 'You're not going to believe this,' she tells him.

'What?' He hands around the tea. 'Did we get a lead on Winner's call out of the hotel?'

'Oh, yes,' Dawes says. 'Sir Torrence Fisher.'

Micheko is sitting on his desk. Toru pulls his chair a few cautious inches away from her, and drops into it. 'Who? That name is familiar.'

'Should be. He's the father of Georgie Fisher. The youngest Newtype murdered by Ivan Rzhevsky.'

Micheko kicks his knee while Toru blinks at the news. 'Wait-- what? Why would Winner ring up someone from the case file? A relative?'

'Isn't it obvious?' Micheko demands. 'We've been assuming Mr Winner would try to find another Newtype for help. But if you start to think about it, that doesn't make sense. Even if he managed to find someone, he'd have to convince them to come out of hiding to help him, and that assumes they're, well, sane enough to help him at all anyway. But this is so much simpler. Georgie Fisher's parents cared about her. They searched for her when she disappeared. Mr Winner knew that from the case file. All he had to do was contact her family and say he has information about their daughter. And the Fishers have money. I bet that's how he got out of London. Do you think we can get warrants on their accounts?'

'Not without more than a suspicion,' Dawes shrugs. 'And only if we plan on arresting them for it afterward. Even if they did get him money somehow, it's nothing illegal.' He stands. 'I'll take it to Commander. Let's get addresses on all the Fisher family members in the country and abroad, for that matter. If Winner did find a network willing to help him, we might be able to get ahead of him.'

'I'm on it.' Toru taps his computer to life and calls up the network. When Dawes is out of earshot, he asks Micheko, 'What were you and Commander talking about?'

'She's helping me with an application. Toru, Dawes said you said Mr Winner asked you to help him meditate last night. That you thought he must have used that to locate another Newtype.'

'Yeah.' He opts for a simple search engine of the national registry and enters the family name, but that's far too broad, with a name like Fisher, on an island country especially. He qualifies it with the father's name, Torrence, and adds the dead girl's name, Georgie. He remembers her now. Twenty-two, Scottish. Rzhevsky had kept her head in his freezer in his apartment. They'd never asked him direct questions about that-- or at least, he'd never given them direct answers. Had Winner only used her because he'd known her name and known that her family was on the island? Or was it more personal than that? Winner had touched her in the morgue, had been sad for her, even tried to read her. He'd said he could feel the Flash from her even dead.

'Georgina,' Micheko points out. 'Georgie was her nickname.' Toru corrects it, and enters the query. 'But if he was going to call the Fishers, he wasn't trying to locate the Newtypes,' she says.

'What?'

'Mr Winner. He didn't try to locate other Newtypes. Maybe there aren't any near enough in London. Or this was his plan all along.'

'Or he tried it and it didn't work and he went with the backup plan.'

'You don't know that.'

'Neither do you.'

'This morning you were defending him. You shouldn't take it personally, Toru.'

'That he used me?' A quick return on the search. Still a couple of hundred results, but that was easily narrowed by obviously unrelated names. He sent it to the printer. 'I wasn't defending him. I think him running away was stupid and that he should have trusted us. I understand why he has a problem with that and I understand why everything in him is opposed to us, but I still think he's just being stupid about this. And I think he's made it so Preventers is going to have to come down on him now, and that when we find him we'll have no choice but to arrest him for interfering in an investigation, and I don't know what he thinks he's gaining by that.'

She squeezes his shoulder. He covers her hand, the most he can allow himself, just now, in public, in front of their fellow Preventers.

'I'll help you run down those addresses,' she says.

 

**

 

It only takes eight minutes to eliminate Barton from the equation. It would have taken less, but Toru actually tries to string it out. It ends predictably. Barton tells him to go screw himself, and Toru tells him you first, and the Scottish boyfriend is somewhere in the background saying soothing things that aren't very effective, but the upshot was that Toru doesn't think Winner has contacted him, or Barton wouldn't look so drawn and be so snappish. There would be far more smug gloating.

It takes eight hours to eliminate most of the Fisher family. The parents are the only ones who were AWOL, and that's pretty much a neon sign pointing toward their complicity in Winner's disappearance. But in the end, they're not as savvy as Winner. It happens well into the first night after Winner's gone missing, but Preventers are watching for it, and as soon as the alert comes in, Toru, Micheko, and Dawes grab their go-bags and they're on the road headed north for Lancaster.

'Cash point,' Dawes says, reading out the scroll of information across his smart phone screen. 'And a lot of cash withdrawn. It looks like they maxed out a couple of cards to the daily limit.'

'Giving him money?' Micheko guesses.

'Enough to get him out of the country?' Toru wonders. 'But why help him?'

'We'll ask when we find the Fishers, eh.' Dawes pulls off the road at a tea stand. 'You two want anything? I need a cuppa before we go any farther.'

'Do they have any of those bacon bappies?' Micheko leans up to look out the window, and passes Dawes a local note. 'Thanks.' When Dawes vacates the car she twists to look at Toru in the backseat. She says, 'Another hotel tonight. I'm getting tired of it.'

'Really?' he says, bemused. 'It's the life. I don't mind it.'

'That's because hotels are about a billion times nicer than the barracks,' she points out. 'When you have your own place you'll understand wanting to be there. And the frustration of paying rent on a place you barely ever inhabit.'

'Why bother, then?'

'Well,' Micheko says. 'Privacy, for one thing.'

He's watching Dawes in queue for their food and almost doesn't catch that. His mouth goes dry. 'Oh.'

A hint of a smile catches the corner of her mouth. 'Is Dawes a sound sleeper?'

'Not that sound!'

She laughs brightly. 'I meant do you think you could sneak out without his noticing, Toru!'

His face is red-hot at that. 'Oh,' he says again, meekly now. 'Um-- I think maybe. Yeah.'

She reaches over the seat. Her fingers slide along his, intertwining, never quite grasping. Her touch is electric, and all of him is hot, now.

'Try it,' she suggests. 'Tonight. I'll leave the door unlocked.'

'Okay,' he says. 'Okay. I, uh, will.'

Dawes is back, thrusting a wrapped sandwich through the window at Toru, sliding in with a tray of teas for them. 'Back on the road,' he grunts, and turns the car on again. 'Destiny and Quatre Winner wait for no man. Or woman, Agent Walker, as it were.'

Toru has never felt so trapped in a car before.

In reality, though, the drive to Lancaster is smooth. The local office is barely the size of a closet in the London HQ building, manned by a sleepy-eyed middle-aged woman with the same strong northern English accent as Dawes. She greets them with an update on the Fisher's financial activity-- two more hits from cash points, this time from cards that had belonged to the daughter and had never been closed, accounts that hadn't been included in Preventers' original sweep. But since then, nothing. And they haven't yet located the parents. Local police are on the alert as well.

'So we wait,' Dawes concludes. 'Winner's going to be in Space by the time we track this down.'

'Do you think he'd try for that?' Micheko asks Toru.

'I don't know,' Toru confesses. 'He told me once he fell in love with Earth. But that's sort of a separate issue than all of this. If he thought he had to, he'd do it, I think.'

'One more worry for tomorrow.' Dawes pulls a brochure from the desk in the lobby. 'Bed and breakfast. Fine by everyone?'

Toru tries not to look at Micheko, but he doesn't quite manage it. She's far more casual, shrugging her consent, unwrapping a granola from the basket as if she's only barely aware of their surroundings. 'Fine,' Toru croaks.

He was wrong about the car. Laying in his single bed listening to Dawes toss and turn as eight turns into nine turns into ten is agony. Beyond agony. But eventually, Dawes stays flat, and finally starts to snore. Thank God. Toru is out of his bed like a lightning shot.

Every single stair between his landing and Micheko's creaks with his bare feet. His heart is pounding. Which door is hers? No-- that's a bath, with the light under the door. Toru creeps down the hall. He scratches beside her latch and whispers her name. 'Are you awake?' he calls softly.

He nearly tumbles in when the door whips open. Micheko stands there in her night dress. 'Finally,' she says, exasperated. 'What kept you?'

'It took forever.' He slips inside, and locks the door behind him. Her room is a fluffy explosion of lace, lit with an old-fashioned blown glass lamp glowing a dim orange, carrying no further than the bedside table. Where there are condoms waiting. His mouth goes dry.

And she's kissing him before he can think anything. He wraps her in his arms. 'God,' he manages. 'I've been--' Her mouth is soft perfection, her teeth teasing him with little nips, her fingers already working on the belt of his robe. 'Thinking of this all--' He fumbles for the hem of her shirt and drags it up her thighs. She separates from him just long enough for him to pull it off over her head, to shake out her long dark hair over her naked shoulders. 'All night,' he gasps.

The eiderdown duvet is so thick it almost bounces them back when they fall onto the bed together. The old iron bed whinges and moans, and they freeze; Toru bites his lip, his hand on her back holding her still against him. But then, slowly, she begins to giggle, hiding it against his shoulder. 'This is not happening,' she mutters, and sprawls backward.

'The whole place will hear us.' Toru hurls a lacy pillow off the bed. 'Move the sheets to the floor?'

'They'll notice in the morning if we rip everything up, and it's cold anyway.' That's true enough. They've both broken out into goose flesh. With a sigh, Toru wrestles the duvet up and pulls it over them. Micheko shivers and squeezes in close beside him, and Toru tries manfully to ignore the press of her naked flesh against his. Especially when she begins to tease him beneath the covers-- surely her knee doesn't have to be sliding up and down just like that in that particular spot? He grits his teeth.

Her chilly fingers trail down his arm, and bring his hand up to her breast. He's the one to moan, this time, bending his head to claim her for a kiss. 'There's other things we could do,' she whispers. 'Quieter things.'

'What?'

She guides him down by a grip on his ponytail. He pauses at her breast, to lick and suck her nipples. She strokes his neck, his shoulders, languid caresses that express approval, like her quickened breath, her restless squirming. But when she tugs at his ponytail again, he looks up, waiting for her guidance. She points him lower.

It takes a minute for him to cotton on. He's glad it's too dark for her to see his blush. 'I've, uh... I've never...' he begins.

Her teeth gleam in a grin. 'I'll tell you how,' she murmurs throatily. 'And then I'll return the favour.'

 

**

 

Toru gets the call while he's sneaking back to his room at five in the morning.

He fumbles for his mobile and drops it, bouncing it off his foot and stumbling after it in the dark. Dawes breaks off mid-snore, sitting up and reaching for the light. Toru makes a dive for the phone and cracks his head on the table with the tea kettle, overturning it.

'Shit,' he mutters, rubbing his temple and finally answering the ring. He puts the phone to ear while Dawes stares blearily at him. 'Agent Craft.'

_'This is Agent Edwards from the Lancaster Office. We have location on the Fishers. They've been spotted in Morecambe.'_

'Morecambe.' Toru scrambles for the scrap paper in his duffle, uncapping a pen and scribbling the name. 'That's coastal, right?'

_'On Morecambe Bay. Resort town. A cabbie responded to the BOLO and reported driving two people resembling the Fishers from the train station to the Morecambe Promenade.'_

'How sure is he? He didn't happen to get a credit card?'

_'No, he says they paid him cash for the trip, but he noted their accents, asked them specifically if they were in town from Scotland, as many folk from Scotland visit Morecambe, what with the location being so nearby. He said the wife didn't have much to say, but the husband told him they were in town to meet a friend and they didn't expect to be there long.'_

'I guess that's more than we had yesterday.' Toru gestures to Dawes, but Dawes is already up and getting dressed. 'Any lead on where they went after he dropped them off?'

_'Cabbie says he recommended they stay at the Midland Hotel. It's a higher-end place-- he said they looked like higher-end folk to him, and he said the husband thanked him for his suggestion. I put in a call already to the Midland, but if they're staying there they used an alias.'_

'Did you ask about cash payments? That would stand out at a place like that.'

_'I did. None last night or the night before. We've got no authority to run credit checks on the rest of the guests.'_

'No,' Toru concludes glumly. 'No, we don't. But we might be able to get the clerk to show us a list of guests voluntarily. A suspicious number of Smiths and Bloggs could tip us off. Follow up on that while we drive out?'

_'Will do. Good luck.'_

'Thanks.' Toru hangs up. 'I'll get Micheko. Check us out?'

'Will do. Best get dressed, eh? Don't want to fright the girl. You're a mess, Craft.'

'Oh,' Toru says. 'Uh, right.'

The reason the Fishers had made a run for Morecambe becomes obvious as soon as they drive in. Not only is it coastal-- it's a fishing town. The piers and docks launch everything from big rigs to one-man skiffs and tiny shells that Dawes calls coracles. It would have been beyond easy to get Winner out of Morecambe on any of those boats. Toru feels his gut sinking as they drove past it. The grim silence from the other says louder than words that they're thinking it too.

They check at the Midland, but there's no sign that the Fishers stayed there. Probably they thought it was too conspicuous; the grandest hotel in the town, too obvious for wealthy visitors like themselves-- or Winner had warned them against it. 'The middle-of-the-run places,' Toru guesses. 'They wouldn't stay at the worst, but that leaves us with a broad swath. Dozens, probably, between bed-and-breakfasts and the hotels.'

'Three of us versus two of them. Who'll win?' Micheko yanks a map from a stand in the Midland's lobby and studies it. 'Let's make some assumptions. They probably got Mr Winner out of here last night, can we agree on that?'

'Winner's not stupid,' Dawes agrees. 'He's long gone.'

'So as far as the Fishers know, the urgency is off. What we need out of this is to find the Fishers and figure out what they did with Winner so we can get ahead of him and reach him before he lands wherever he's headed. So if you're the Fishers and you've just handed over a shit-load of money to a strange Newtype, what's next?'

'Train station,' Toru says. 'You go home, I guess.'

'You don't assume the police are out looking for you? Or Preventers? You don't think Mr Winner would have warned them?'

'No.' Toru scrubs a hand through his hair. 'No, Quatre would warn them. They'll know we're after him, which means we're after them, too.'

'Which means the smartest thing they could do is wait somewhere central for us to catch up to them.'

'Somewhere central.' Toru looks over her shoulder, and Dawes joins them on her other side. Dawes spots it first. 'There,' Dawes says. 'The Promenade. Where that cabbie dropped them off. Big tourist spot, open early, not far from the docks. How do we like the odds?'

'I'm game,' Toru decides. 'Walker?'

'I'm game,' Micheko agrees. 'Let's go, Agents.'

The Promenade is a good guess. They walk it from the Midland, leaving their car parked in front of the sweeping art-deco facade of the hotel and taking out over the cold beach-side walk. The Promenade stretches all across the city front, already populated by bicyclists and joggers out for the early air. It's properly morning, now, with a thin, pinky sunrise, and the roar of the morning tide has a sleepy romanticism. Toru finds himself watching the breeze playing with Micheko's hair, and makes himself look away.

'There,' Dawes says, pointing. 'That stone jetty ahead. Saw Winner out there and stayed to await the inevitable. Bet you a hot breakfast.'

'Hot breakfast,' Toru muses. 'All right, I'll take that. Hot breakfast against... against coffee and you driving all the way back to London that they're at the big clock instead.'

'You're both wrong,' Micheko tells them. 'They'll be in the West End Gardens. They'll be out there talking about their daughter. And you two can buy me breakfast and chauffeur me back.'

There's no-one at the jetty but a few early fishermen casting lines, and none of them match the photographs, nor have seen the Fishers. The clock is likewise an abandoned landmark, chiming half-six unnoticed but for their passing. But the gardens have visitors even this early, an elderly man sitting on a bench feeding a few enterprising terns from a bag of scraps, a woman reading a book by dawn light, and a couple who sit huddled together at one of the tables, a pair of paper tea cups between them and a lone duffel bag at their feet. Toru mutely holds up their picture. It's the Fishers.

'Toru,' Micheko says, tugging his sleeves. Dawes is on his mobile already, calling it in, but he pauses when she speaks, listening. 'Toru, you should go in. Just be gentle with them.'

'Me?'

'You,' Dawes agrees. 'You're the one who knows Winner best. And you're best with civvies. Don't spook them, is all.' He nods Toru forward, and gives him a nudge when he only shuffles reluctantly on the cobblestones.

'Now I want breakfast,' Toru mutters, but he goes where he's being shoved. He buttons his coat nervously, then unbuttons it, thinking maybe casual is better. He loosens his badge in his pocket. But he doesn't even need it, in the end. As he nears, the man stands.

'Are you Agent Craft?' he calls.

Toru glances back for Micheko and Dawes. They're near, but not near enough to answer. So he does. 'Yes, sir,' he says, and comes close enough not to have to shout the distance. 'You're Sir Torrence Fisher?'

'Yes.' Fisher's wife is standing, too, so Toru offers his hand, first to the lady, then to her husband. Fisher holds his hand for just a moment longer than Toru would have, and adds, 'Quatre Winner said we could trust you, Agent.'

Toru meets his eyes, and sees there nothing more than a man who is weary to the bone and terrified of what he's done in the last twenty-four hours. Toru can relate to that notion quite well, after acquaintance with Quatre Winner.

'Yes,' he agrees quietly. 'You can. And I hope you will. Beginning with your story. Please sit down. All I want to do right now is talk.'

The Fishers retake their seats, and Toru joins them at the table, sweeping his spot free of morning damp, sitting with both legs over the bench so they won't suspect him of jumping up to arrest them at any moment. Micheko and Dawes are keeping their distance, whatever that means, letting him have total control over the interview. He thinks Mr Fisher has seen them, but his wife doesn't seem to have noticed, which might help her relax. Her eyes keep wandering the horizon distractedly, returning to him only when he shifts. When he speaks, she looks surprised, as if she'd forgotten him.

'We know you helped Mr Winner,' he says. 'And that you likely gave him money. A fairly large amount of money. I suppose the first thing I'd ask is how he convinced you to do that.'

Fisher inhales slowly and deeply. 'You're young, Agent? You look young. You don't have children.'

'No, sir. I don't have children. Neither does Mr Winner.'

'But we do. We did.'

'Yes, sir. Georgina.'

Fisher gazes down at his clasped hands for a long time, then. Toru doesn't interrupt, sensing he's going to get his answer on the other end of that pained silence. He's half guessed it, as it is. It's remarkably simple, this escape Winner pulled off. Micheko was probably right. Winner had never needed meditation or Newtype games. It was always simpler than that.

'Georgina was your age when she... became involved in--' Fisher's soft burr dips into almost unintelligible. He clears his throat. 'She was always strong-minded. She had abilities we didn't understand. Made little effort to understand. We wanted a normal daughter, you see, a normal girl who cared about dresses and debutante balls and boys, not politics and the paranormal. But Georgie was so headstrong. So headstrong. Couldn't ever tell her a damn thing. When she disappeared--'

'What did Mr Winner offer you?' Toru asks him directly.

Lady Fisher reaches out and covers her husband's hand. He bows his head.

'He helped us to know our daughter,' she tells Toru. 'Maybe it doesn't seem like enough to do what we did. But all he did was talk. He told us about being a Newtype. About feeling what others feel, hearing what they think. About feeling moved to be part of something bigger than yourself, about growing up knowing you have something in you that you can use for a greater good. We'll never have our daughter back, but we can know this part of her, finally.'

'That's worth more than a little money and a boat,' Fisher rasps. He clears his throat again and looks away.

Toru folds his own hands on the tabletop. 'We need to find him,' he says then. 'He's not safe alone. He hasn't been alone in the world since he was a boy. If he told you about being a Newtype, then he must also have told you about the dangers. The instability. The risk around people. And the truth about what happened to your daughter. There are people who... there are people who hunt Newtypes. If I know anything about Quatre, he was honest with you about that.'

Lady Fisher's eyes are shiny with tears. Sir Fisher is no better, but he held it in better. 'Yes,' he says flatly. 'Yes. He told us the truth about Georgie. More than what Preventers did. And he said that what he's trying to do is stop anyone from making another him or another Georgie ever again. I support that effort with my entire soul, Agent Craft. Every Newtype was a daughter or a son. I've never seen anything so wrong.'

Toru rubs his eyes. 'You're not going to tell us where he went.'

Lady Fisher shakes her head. 'Arrest us if you will. What can we lose now that we've lost Georgie? You'll have to find him without our help, young man.'

'What if he dies in the doing? Do you realise that's possible? He can barely control himself around five or six people. More than that and he might lose consciousness. He can go into psychic shock. He might not ever wake up. If there was any kind of reason behind this, if there's any sense to sacrificing yourselves on his behalf, at least be logical about it,' he pleads. 'Help us find him not to stop him, not to hurt him. Just to help him before he gets sick.'

'He said he could do it. I believe him.'

'You don't know him from Joe, Sir Fisher.'

'But I do,' Fisher responds. 'He's just like my daughter.'


	13. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Barton's eyes go closed. He just sits there, breathing. He's in a workshop of some kind, an office there in Paris all those miles away from St John's, with paper tacked to the wall behind him and a corner desk stretching out in the lower half of the screen, and there's a picture frame on the desk that is probably not a picture of Quatre Winner, but everything in Barton's still face, defeated posture says love. Old and painful love. Toru sees it, finally, and feels something sad for them._

'Look, we don't have grounds to arrest them, from where I'm standing,' Dawes says stubbornly. 'We don't have grounds to arrest Winner when we find him. The regs say we can hold them for twenty-four hours for questions and then we have to let them loose.'

'We're running an active investigation and Winner is directly obstructing it,' Micheko argues. 'And he encouraged the Fishers to obstruct us. He got them to monetarily obstruct us. I think the regulations cover us arresting them until they provide Winner's location.'

'I don't think they know,' Toru says. He pushes his eggs across his paper plate listlessly. He doesn't really have an appetite, after hours of trying to persuade, bribe, threaten cooperation out of the Fishers. 'I think they just gave him the cash and the boat and that was the end of it. Which means he could be anywhere.'

Micheko blew out a long slow breath. 'All right, well, there's still a lot of information they could give us. Like what kind of boat he's on? It might be the difference between crossing the Channel and sailing the Atlantic.'

Dawes reluctantly agrees. 'But we don't have grounds to arrest them to get that information.'

'And they aren't giving it up voluntarily. So we just surrender to the void here?'

'Too bad we don't have a Newtype who could read it off their minds for us.' Toru makes himself eat a forkful. 'We haven't really answered the question of what he's out there trying to do. “Prevent a plague of Newtypes” is kind of vague. I mean, does Quatre strike you as the type of man to run out there without a plan? Finding the Fishers is ingenuous. Floating around planet-side with nothing but good intentions and a hell of a handicap is not.'

'You have a point.' Micheko leaves off her pacing and resumes her chair, pulling her tea near. 'Do you think he might have given the Fishers any detail of what he intended? I mean, he had to convince them he was for real, somehow. It's one thing to lead with information about their daughter, but it's another to sell them a line about what he intends to do with himself once he's taken their money.'

'Now you have a point.' Dawes sits too, stealing Toru's toast for a bite. 'They did seem to know more than they were saying about his plans. So what's the next step, Craft? How do we get them to spill all their secrets for the asking?'

Toru spears his black pudding. He's starting to like the salty, tangy treat, and adds it to his list of local delicacies worth spending money on. 'Asking is pretty obviously out. Food didn't work, either.'

'Food always works on you,' Micheko teases.

'I'm a growing boy.' He bites his black pudding in two. 'I think we should cut them loose,' he says. 'Sally was right. Let's do this the old-fashioned way. We've already got a great resource, a better resource than the Fishers. Ivan Rzhevsky's case file. Quatre saw a lot of it, and he may have seen more inside of Rzhevsky's head than ever made it into the file at all. I was thinking we could start mapping the datapoints.'

Dawes looks at him curiously. 'Mapping?' he repeats. 'Like drawing a map?'

'Like plotting quantitative data. Rzhevsky provided a lot about the Newtypes he killed, and his database had a lot more. Location, for instance. He mostly haunted the major population areas-- big cities like London, Beijing, Mexico City. We could plot Rzhevsky's Newtype data against open government data and--'

'And create exactly the kind of file Mr Winner ran away to stop us from creating,' Micheko points out.

Toru chews the inside of his cheek. 'I know,' he says. 'I'm not sure that's a good enough reason not to do it. The fact of the matter is that it's probably just a question of time. Whether it's us or an intern at Interior.'

After a moment she only shrugs her shoulders. 'I know,' she agrees. 'But if we do ever see him again, you know he'll be upset.'

'Then I'll tell him it was my idea and I'll deal with him.' Toru twirls his fork slowly, watching the tines move through the air. 'But if it helps us find him, that's a bigger priority. The only option we have now is to play catch-up. So let's do it. Quatre's only got memory on his side, and we have computer power. And we need that list, Dawes. The list of Newtypes that Rzhevsky didn't get to. We need all the data we can access, because you can bet Quatre went digging for it in Rzhevsky's head. We can't afford to flail around in the dark.'

Dawes heaves out a heavy breath. 'I don't disagree with that argument. I'll ask. Can't guarantee you anything. What'd you call it again, data what?'

'Data mapping. I took a course on it a couple of years ago. I'm a little rusty, but I think I can put together a decent model, out of what we have in the case. And maybe more, if we combine the identifying attributes we developed for the Newtype file, years ago. I could develop an entity-relationship model that--' He stops at the look on Dawes' face, and grins. 'It's how they build databases for things like telecommunications and GIS. We've got a lot of disparate information sets. We build up the conceptual relationship aspects, and programme a logical interface. It could help us locate Quatre, or at least figure out the most likely places he'd go to, if he's trying to find Newtypes.'

'You young folk are going to put me out of the job,' Dawes complains companionably. 'When I was your age we had just got mobile phones, and they were size of my arm. All this technology since the war. Too much for me.' He stands. 'That said, I'm going to go find a spot to stand in with some damn wireless signal. Let's check in and get permission to go back to London.'

Micheko watches him go. She steals a mushroom from Toru's plate and nibbles at it absently. 'You seem tired,' she says. 'Since we found the Fishers.'

'I feel sorry for them.' Toru puts his fork down. 'I can't decide if Quatre took advantage of them.'

'I don't know. I think maybe a little, in that he took their money and used it for himself. But he has a lot of his own money. Maybe he'll pay them back when he can.'

'I don't mean the money. I mean, I guess I didn't even think about the money. That's true.'

'You mean telling them stories about their daughter.'

'It's pretty bold,' Toru says doubtfully. 'Imagining he can even-- I mean, he didn't know her. Not really. How can he even really begin to know what she was like, what her experience as a Newtype was like? He went out of his way to tell me that he thought Rzhevsky was talking out of his ass about how it was in OZ, and yet he's going to come here and tell these poor people some story based on nothing more than what he himself experienced in a totally different context in the colonies during the war.'

'He must have figured it was better than nothing.'

'I just feel like I don't know him after all.' He pushes at the edge of his plate. 'I just-- I guess I just thought he was... above this. Manipulating people. The Fishers are good people. Hurt people. He used their grief to get a boat.'

Micheko's eyes are downturned, her long lashes blinking slowly over her fingers. She says, 'If someone could tell me about my father, I would want to know. Wouldn't you want to know about your parents? What they're doing, why they did it? When you think about it, Toru... When you think about it, that's what Winner's been doing for you all along. Telling you why your father did what he did.'

Toru blinks. 'What? No.'

'Your father is a Newtype.' She says it quietly, quietly enough that even though Toru takes a paranoid glance at the door of the breakroom, he's not really thinking they'll be overheard. They're thoroughly alone, and his gut is seizing up tight. Micheko looks up, and Toru looks away, or tries to. He can feel her eyes on him. 'Mr Winner knows that. And he knows how you feel about it. Everything he's told you about himself has really been telling you about your father, too. About yourself.'

'I'm not a Newtype,' he starts flatly.

'No,' she agrees softly. 'But you were worried that you were. So he helped you understand. Like he helped the Fishers understand that it's not the worst thing in the world, that it doesn't automatically make you a monster.' She looks at him for a long minute, and he refuses to look back. She sighs, and stands. 'Well,' she says, 'you're not the one who gets to judge whether he did a good thing, going to them. They are. And they're glad for it. So it must be right enough. If you want to be pissy with him, find a different reason. Or just admit that you're worried _for_ him, and we can get back to your very good idea for finding him, all right?'

When she's gone, Toru throws his plate into the bin with a grump, and splashes his face with water from the sink. He's not sure if that counts as their first fight, but he kind of wants to kick something.

 

**

 

They let the Fishers go home.

Toru watches them walk out the lobby with mixed feelings. There's no question that they know more than they've said, but that happens sometimes in life. Maybe more often than not with Newtypes. And maybe more often even with Quatre Winner. Who is still out there somewhere, probably far away by now, doing something mysterious, because that seems to be standard business for anything involving Quatre Winner, too.

All of which leaves three Preventers driving back to London essentially empty-handed. Toru has his e-reader out the whole way, studying the case file and building a database table with a value key based on the known attributes of all the Newtypes either Preventers or Ivan Rzhevsky had ever encountered. It leaves him with questions, though. Not just the question of what might be on that list of unconfirmed Newtypes that Rzhevsky hadn't murdered; but a question he can't go to anyone, even Micheko, to answer. Toru knows things about Newtypes that no-one else does. He knows about the glow.

So the question is-- if he knows something that might be important, might be unique-- should he include it? Can he include it, knowing he'll have to account for how it got there?

He's not a good enough programmer to build it in and hide it. Which sort of answers the question. And it's not like the database was going to be exhaustive, anyway. And... and if Toru is the only one who can even see the glow, maybe it's not really an issue. They're on the look-out for Newtypes, not children of Newtypes. Assuming that there are other children of Newtypes, and that those children can see it, too. Quatre can't see it. So does it matter?

As they're parking in the garage at London HQ, Dawes twists from the front seat to look at him. He says, 'Craft. We should bring in Barton.'

Toru rubs his eyes. They're strained and swimmy from staring at electronics for hours of the drive. 'What? Barton?'

'He's the one who dropped this Ishaq Khosa bomb on us. I think we need to figure out why. What exactly does he know about Khosa-- and was he the one who thought to drop the name, or did Winner put him up to it?' Dawes finds a space for their vehicle on the second level and parks neatly. 'I think we should advocate to get him in here for interview.'

'Get him here?' Micheko repeats. 'Commander won't like that.'

'Better than flying us out there,' Toru points out.

'We do have Paris-based agents.'

'Who don't have the background. Besides, I get the feeling Barton would love to eat a few rookie Preventers for breakfast.' Toru kicks open the passenger door and crawls out. His knees crack, his spine pops, and he rolls his neck on his shoulders for good measure. Even his hand is cramped around the e-reader. Dawes and Micheko follow him out, taking their own post-drive rituals of regaining their feet. 'Phone interviews probably wouldn't fly, either,' Toru says. 'He's hard enough to pin down in person. I think I agree, Dawes. We'd be better off getting him here. And if we get him here, then we might as well pump him for information on Quatre.'

Micheko leans on the car, propping her chin on her hand. 'That's a leap. And you know Commander's going to say the same thing. If we tell Mr Barton that Mr Winner is missing, we're going to have a real problem on our hands. He'll go tearing off looking for him, and we'll have two Gundam Pilots to worry after.'

'Barton doesn't have the resources to go on a global man-hunt. We do. I think if we offer to combine forces, Barton's knowledge about Quatre for our satellites and stations, we might be able to convince him.' Toru tucks his reader into his coat and pops the boot of the car to get their luggage. 'Barton doesn't like us, that's true, but he'll like the idea of Quatre wandering around out there less. I don't think his principles will hold up against the thought of Quatre dying out there alone.'

'Ruthless,' Micheko comments.

'Tired of being jerked around by these two,' Toru corrects her. 'And worried Quatre will actually die alone out there. Shit-- shit.' He rubs his eyes. 'Winner took that drug. Rzhevsky's drug. He's got it with him, wherever he is.'

Dawes looks keenly at him. 'What's this now? Rzhevsky's drug?'

'The drug he was using to control Newtypes. I--' It's one thing to admit this to Micheko, who was never going to turn him in. Dawes is another question. Toru hesitates. But this is a more urgent question than the glow, and a bigger risk. He confesses. 'The night he and I were in Rzhevsky's lab. Winner had been dosed with Rzhevsky's anti-Newtype serum, and it blocked his abilities. I stole one of the vials. And I gave it to Winner. I thought if he could figure out a way to make it safe and-- the point is that he has some medical group somewhere experimenting with the formula, and he's taking it. He's got it with him now. He didn't think it was working, I didn't think it was working, but it's a factor we have to consider. He's got access to a resource that might make a difference in how long he can be out amongst people.'

Dawes is wincing. 'I don't suppose it's worth point out that was dereliction of duty and probably a violation of a dozen different regs?'

Micheko starts to grin. 'It's one of the things I like the most about him,' she says lightly. 'Why let a little thing like the codebook stand between a Toru and a good idea?'

Toru tugs sheepishly at his ponytail. 'It did seem like a good idea,' he mumbles lamely, embarrassed. 'Or at least a fair one. We almost got him killed. And at the time we didn't know he'd continue to be involved with us. I'm not-- Okay, I'm not defending what I did. And if you need to report, want to report it, Dawes, I think it's time anyway. If I don't come clean about this we lose a potential lead.'

'No,' Dawes says immediately, surprising both the younger agents. 'You'll be suspended, and there's nothing to gain out of that. We need you on the case.' He grins at them. 'Not least to find out what other secrets you've been keeping.'

Toru licks his lips. 'Thank you,' he says slowly.

Dawes shrugs, and takes his duffel. 'Every rule has an exception,' he answers. 'Why should Newtypes be the one thing we don't give room to? Let's get inside and think about how this drug business is going to impact our case. Hey-- Barton knows about it?'

Toru looks at Micheko. She can only shrug. 'I don't think so,' Toru says slowly. 'I didn't see any indication of it. Quatre always seemed to be observing the non-disclosure agreement pretty carefully. But I never asked outright.'

'Well,' Dawes says, 'then we've got leverage, haven't we?' He locks the car with the fob, and heads for the lifts at the head of the lot. 'Come on. I need a proper tea before I die of cold. Think they've got tea wherever Winner is?'

Micheko pokes him in the arm as she falls into step with him. 'See?' she whispers. 'He's not so bad.'

'That's better luck than I deserve,' Toru mutters to her. He carries her bag and his as they follow Dawes to the lifts. 'We'll have to tell Commander eventually.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. You said you didn't think it was working. And that it was making him ill. Maybe he wouldn't risk using it if he was worried about keeping ahead of us.'

'I don't even know what lab he was using. He could be contacting them and getting an updated version of the drug.'

'It's not really that easy to develop medicine. And there's the issue of paying for it. He knows we're monitoring his accounts.'

'The accounts we know about.'

'We'll find him or we won't,' Micheko says then. 'And he'll either be okay or he won't. But we've got good leads, even without taking this drug into consideration. Ishaq Khosa and Trowa Barton. We'll get something good out of one of those. You'll see.'

Even more surprising than Dawes refusing to turn Toru in-- Sally doesn't put up any fight about flying Barton in. She just signs the authorisation right away, and requests a cheap flight. Micheko shrugs, but Dawes whispers that it means she's worried about them not getting anything out of the Fishers. Toru takes that as grim news. He finds a private office that's unoccupied, and he makes the call. Micheko joins him, but she only sits silently, not even in view of the screen. Just supporting him.

It seems to take forever for Barton to answer the rings, and Toru taps his feet impatiently. When it clicks through, he sits straight, arranging his face into something vaguely professional and remote. Barton sees who it is, and grimaces at him.

 _'What,'_ Barton says. _'I don't have anything left to say to you people.'_

'Then maybe you can try just listening.' Toru scratches a passing itch on his ear, and lets out a breath. 'Quatre's gone. He, um, he left.'

Barton blinks. That's it, his only reaction. _'What,'_ he repeats slowly.

'It happened a few days ago. We're in London, like we planned. He interviewed someone for us, and evidently he believed that there was information about Newtypes that was going to be endangered if he continued to work with Preventers. So he left, and we don't know where he's gone.' He lets that sink in for a moment, with Barton staring back at him through the screen, the silence getting more and more explosive. Just when Barton inhales sharply, Toru adds, 'He left you a letter. I have it here.'

Micheko sits up at that, but doesn't speak. Toru doesn't look at her. Only Barton. Who shows just a tiny flicker of what looks like guilt.

'I haven't read it,' Toru says. 'I give you my word on that. I didn't tell my command about it.'

Barton finally moves. He rubs his mouth, looks away. _'Why,'_ he asks dully.

'For him. Not for you. I owed it.' Toru lets that sit heavy between them, too, as almost a full minute ticks away. Then he says, 'You owe him, too.'

Barton's eyes go closed. He just sits there, breathing. He's in a workshop of some kind, an office there in Paris all those miles away from St John's, with paper tacked to the wall behind him and a corner desk stretching out in the lower half of the screen, and there's a picture frame on the desk that is probably not a picture of Quatre Winner, but everything in Barton's still face, defeated posture says love. Old and painful love. Toru sees it, finally, and feels something sad for them.

'Help us find him,' Toru says. 'We can fly you out tonight.'

_'If this is what he wants, to... disappear...'_

'It is. But that doesn't mean it's right.'

Barton's eyes never open. But he nods painfully.

 

**

 

He meets Barton at the airport. It's a very different experience than getting Winner in and out.

Barton walks out on his own, for one. Alone. No MacLeod. That's probably not good, joining all the dots; but it's easier on Preventers, not having to house and handle both of them, so Toru says nothing, and Barton's face is cold and unrevealing, and he says nothing, so that's that. Toru gestures silently, and Barton walks beside him, his duffel over his shoulder, his free hand stuffed deep into the pocket of his peacoat. He might, Toru thinks from the odd fall of his coat, be armed, but if he is, he's probably licensed, being a professional gun-runner. One hopes. One does not ask.

He has a company car parked in the lot, and Barton takes the passenger seat without a word. Toru drives, both hands on the wheel where Barton can see them, and he does feel Barton's eyes on him, the whole of the way from Heathrow into town. They're past the early-morning rush hour, but mid-day traffic never really dies down, so the drive is lengthened by the necessity of sitting through lights too short for the queue of cars and lorries, of having to brake for pedestrians who fearlessly jump into the street to cross. Barton just stares at him, and Toru just sits there and endures it, not sure what else he's supposed to do.

They're less than ten minutes out from London Headquarters when he finally speaks. He says, 'Do you want the letter now or later?'

'Now,' Barton says promptly.

He reaches into his coat for it, and holds it out. Barton takes it carefully, so that their fingers never touch. He checks the seal in the light from the window. Toru tells himself not to find it offencive. It's just Barton, being Barton. And Barton evidently decides Toru didn't mess with it, because he rips it open with a finger down the side and slides out the paper. He reads it, devours it, flips the page to read the back, goes to the beginning and reads it again. Then he drops it to his lap and stares out the window.

Toru lets out a slow breath. Okay.

'We think he went out of northern England by boat,' he says into the quiet. 'Destination unknown. We're hoping you can help us with that. He has to be limited in where he can go. Who he can interact with.'

Barton crumples the edge of the letter. Then smooths it, remorsefully. He says, very softly, 'He'll look for Heero.'

'What?'

'Heero. He'll look for Heero.'

'That's what he said?'

'No. But that's what he'll do. He doesn't have anyone left. His family stopped talking to him decades ago. I-- I'm not-- he wrote that he stayed as long as he could for you, but that it was too much of a risk now. He doesn't have anyone else left. He'll look for Heero.'

Toru chews the inside of his cheek as he drives. He checks the rear-view mirror, adjusts it carefully for the view over his left, and swallows. 'Will he find him?'

'I don't know.' Barton's voice goes so quiet Toru can barely hear him. 'I don't know if Heero is even alive. I do know that Quatre always believed he was.'

'He may know how to find other Newtypes.'

'The Flash. Yeah.'

'No. Something new. Related to the case he was helping us with.'

Barton looks at him keenly. 'Are you going to read me in or are we going to dance around this for however long it takes to find Quatre?'

'That's above my pay-grade,' Toru answers shortly, borrowing one of Dawes' most jaw-tightening rejoinders. It works on Barton, who visibly grinds his teeth and looks away. Toru almost presses him, thinking Barton might let something slip in irritation, but they make it past the light after all and then they're only a block from Preventers' car park.

Barton gets an escort-only badge at the front desk, his scowling face printed on the Visitor square. It's clear he doesn't like being entered into their system, all his personal information typed in by the desk guard, but he doesn't say anything other than what's asked of him, name, age, citizen numbers. He flags in the background check, and Toru knows it because it's impossible for him not to flag, but he'd personally put a waiver in the evening before, and the guard only flicks an eye up before clicking past the entry. Toru takes them down to the employee gym to get Barton a locker for his luggage, letting Barton select it and take the key for himself. Then they travel up the lifts to their guest offices on the sixth storey.

Dawes and Micheko are waiting, of course, but so is Sally, which is something of a surprise. Toru hadn't known she'd be there, and he checks himself, just for a second, wondering if this is because it's related to the ongoing Quatre Winner fiasco or if it's because she knew Barton long ago in the war. Barton may not be sure about it, either, because he slows when Toru does, dragging his steps leaving the lifts, and picking up again only when he seems to decide to put an indifferent face on it. They meet as a group at the large glass doors before the office, and Sally steps forward, her hand extended. Barton takes it.

'Trowa,' Sally greets him, almost warmly. 'Welcome back. I'm sorry about the circumstances.'

'You lost him,' Barton says without any answering glimmer.

Sally releases his hand. 'Yes,' she admits, matter-of-factly. 'He was faster.'

'He always is.' Barton releases a slow breath. 'I forget that about him too many times.'

Sally nods. 'Me, too. Let's go find him.'

Barton inclines his head. 'Okay.'

The conference room they go to is not dissimilar to the one in Brussels in which Sally first interviewed Winner, the one in which they discovered that Rzhevsky's drug was very much not working. There's a large table, oval in shape, and Barton ends out on one side of it and Sally on the other, along with most of the Preventers. Toru hesitates by the door, remembering how it went the last time, and makes his decision. He takes a seat beside Barton, and if Sally doesn't like it, well, that's too bad. Barton's eyes flick toward him in what might be surprise, but he doesn't outwardly react to it, and Toru pretends it's nothing extraordinary, either. Sally catches his eyes, but she doesn't say anything.

'We can go about this one of two ways,' Sally begins. 'This is inescapable, so I'm not presenting this as a conversation, but as a choice. Quatre was involved in our case. We can bring you in as a consultant as well, which means you sign all the same non-disclosure agreements, that you come aboard in the same capacity, compensation included, for the duration of your contact with us, which can end the moment we locate Quatre. You'll be temporarily issued a Secret-level clearance, which will give you access to some, but obviously not all, of the case information that you'll need to facilitate our operations. Or we use you as a confidential informant to our case. We interview you, at whatever length necessary, again with some compensation for your time and effort, which would include the flight here and back and any room and board while you're in London. You will have no access to our case information and you won't be told anything about what Quatre was doing for us or why he may have left in the middle of it. When we do find him, you won't be able to ask him questions about why he left, where he went, what he did, or who he was in contact with while he was gone-- or at least, he won't be able to answer you.' She opens her dossier and turns it toward him. 'I've got both sets of paperwork here. You can read the non-disclosure agreement before you decide, if you'd like.'

Barton is not looking at her, but at his fingernails. He says, 'Preventers are aware of my... day job.'

'Yes,' Sally says. 'You're aware we're aware. You know you're on a number of lists held by the government, not just Preventers. You've been investigated before.'

'Does your paperwork include any agreement on your end to officially ignore anything you learn about myself or my-- operation?'

'No,' Sally says. 'It doesn't, and I won't pretend that's not a problem for you. But there's no universe in which we'd agree to look the other way if actionable intelligence came across our desk in the course of another investigation. Whether we would act on it at that moment is a different question.'

'There is the immunity agreement,' Toru says.

That's the approximate moment, oddly, when he realises his career is probably not going to recover from deliberately associating himself with the Gundam Pilots over his fellow agents. It was one thing to make a show of sitting with Barton; that could have been passed off as feigning friendship, trying to build rapport. Going out of his way to actively cover possible illegal activity is probably-- very likely-- a step beyond what Sally's going to accept out of him, and even if she accepted it, his command won't.

But his mouth keeps on speaking, and, curiously, he doesn't feel any need to stop it. 'Quatre was fighting for an immunity agreement to cover you both,' he says, mostly to Barton, but also to Sally. 'Technically it was to cover what you did in the Resistance, which included activity connected to the development of the Newtypes. But I think you have a strong argument that your business with weapons is a direct extension of your involvement in the war. Which means you'd be covered by the immunity agreement for that as well, and thus free from prosecution even if Preventers did learn anything actionable about you.'

Dawes has a pursed lips look to him that says he's not comfortable with how that played out. Micheko is frowning, but he's not sure why. Sally is just looking at him. It doesn't bode well.

But, then, unexpectedly, she says, 'Agent Craft might be correct in his interpretation. If you have doubts, you could speak to a lawyer, but Quatre was pushing for a very broad grant. I can tell you it's being worked on by the Executive Office of the President as we speak. And that finding Quatre will be the only way to successfully ensure you actually get that grant.'

Barton takes the dossier. He does read the paperwork, and closely. No-one interrupts him. When he takes up the stylus to sign, Toru can't tell at first which set he's signing. But when he returns the dossier to Sally and she tabs up to the top of the e-document, she relaxes just a little bit. It's the non-disclosure. Barton's in.

'We'll process this immediately,' she says, and passes it to Micheko, who leaves promptly with it. 'But if you're amenable, we'd like to start talking right away. We don't want to lose any more time on Quatre.'

'Agreed.' Barton shrugs out of his coat, and reaches for a waterglass. Toru pours for him, and Barton looks at him, mouth screwed a little to the side. He drinks as if he suspects there might be something in it, even though it's been sitting in the open all that time. Toru allows himself to roll his eyes, and allows Barton to see it, just so they know where they stand. Barton snorts softly.

'Craft can brief you at length on the case later, but the upshot is that Quatre was assisting us in identifying and arresting a Newtype who was murdering other Newtypes,' Sally explains briefly. She sets out a photograph of Ivan Rzhevsky, and Barton leans over to examine it. 'We were successful, and we terminated our original contract with Quatre months ago, when he returned to Canada. However, during our interviews with this Newtype after his arrest, we developed a number of questions we couldn't verify against the answers-- the non-answers he was providing us. We asked Quatre to return to interview him, partially because of Quatre's own status as a Newtype, partially because of Quatre's particular gift of being able to read thoughts.'

'And partially because there seemed to be some bond between them,' Toru adds, which brings Barton's head around to him again, this time with narrowed eyes. 'They were drawn to each other. This man, Rzhevsky, was very interested in Quatre. And while I don't think Quatre liked it very much, he did feel something for Rzhevsky. Maybe because they're both Newtypes, and there's so few left?'

Barton sits back in his chair with his waterglass, grimacing over it. 'Quatre used to connect to certain people,' he says softly. 'Me. Heero. This woman, Dorothy Catalonia... it didn't seem to matter if they didn't connect back to him, feel the same way he did. But in the end you did, even if you didn't want to. I didn't think it had anything to do with him being a Newtype. Or if it did, it didn't necessarily matter if the other person was. I'm not. Catalonia isn't.' He inclines the waterglass to Toru. 'You're not. He acts the same way with you.'

That's not an accidental statement. Barton knows what he's doing, putting that out there where it can hurt Toru. Hurt his standing with his command. So. Not friends, not allies. Or maybe it's not quite that. Maybe Barton is drawing the line hard and fast to ensure Toru doesn't have a choice about it. If there's no reason for divided loyalties, he'll choose Winner.

God. The idea that he's actually starting to follow all of this makes his head hurt.

'So maybe we discount that for the moment.' Sally taps her fingernails on the table. 'During his interviews with Rzhevsky, Quatre apparently learnt something he didn't like. We were asking him to pursue questions about Newtype development, and about Rzhevsky's ability to locate other Newtypes. He asked Rzhevsky how he did it. We believe, though admittedly we don't know for sure, that Quatre figured out how Rzhevsky was using his Newtype ability to find other Newtypes. We're tentatively theorising that Quatre is doing that. Do you know of other Newtypes Quatre might be trying to find?'

'Heero Yuy,' Toru says, getting it out there before Barton has to say it. Barton's made his move to get Toru on the playing board, and Barton will think what he likes of Toru's riposte. He isn't doing it to protect Barton, though. 'We're the ones who brought it up to Quatre. I think he'll go after Heero. He's afraid we'll do it first, that we'll use what we've learnt from Rzhevksy to try to bring him in involuntarily. He said as much to me. That we have Rzhevsky's drug now, and we might weaponise it to try and take down Newtypes who wouldn't come in on their own.'

He's at least a little gratified that the idea seems to take Sally off guard, and that she looks disturbed by it. 'He doesn't have a very high opinion of us,' she says, and presses her lips together. She rubs her mouth. 'I'd like to think it's not justified. I've been thinking we've managed ourselves well. He didn't want us to kill Rzhevsky, and we didn't. He didn't want us to force him into cooperating, and we've tried not to. But from his perspective, it's all a slow slide into the worst, isn't it.'

Dawes speaks slowly, watching his commander thoughtfully. 'The question then is whether he did learn enough from Rzhevsky to be able to find Yuy. Only Rzhevsky said he couldn't find Yuy, and he had as much incentive to go looking in deep, dark corners.' He switches his gaze to Barton. 'Which brings me to a question I've been wanting to ask you, sir. Why Ishaq Khosa?'

Barton blinks. 'Ishaq Khosa.'

'Yes.' Toru clasps his hands on the tabletop. 'You passed me his name. He was a Preventer. And also a Newtype. Which you knew.'

Barton gives all of them a mile-long stare. Then his eyelashes fall to hide his eyes. 'I knew.'

'How?' Dawes prompts. 'It was Winner, wasn't it. Winner must have met him when you were in Brussels before, and felt the Flash.'

'Of course,' Sally says, sighing. 'And Khosa would have known then that Quatre knew.'

'We were there for an interview. Because no matter how often we ask it, Preventers never really left Quat alone.' Barton clenches his waterglass, and sets it aside. 'I saw one of you watching him. Whenever we were in the main offices. He followed us to the airport. He was afraid... he was afraid Quat had revealed there was a Newtype in Preventers. Quat swore he hadn't. I knew he hadn't. This guy was terrified, though. He knew what would happen to him if he was found out.'

'So he resigned.' Dawes makes a note for himself. 'I think it's interesting that Rzhevsky didn't try to get to Khosa to kill him--- or maybe didn't know where he'd gone after he left Preventers.'

'I don't know anything about that.'

'There's a list,' Toru says carefully, thinking his way to words that skirt the edge of what's beyond Barton's need to know-- what's beyond the edge of what will make Barton truly angry and uncooperative. 'Of Newtypes that this Rzhevsky knew about and was trying to hunt down. Quatre was on it. So was Ishaq Khosa. But we don't know what we don't know, presumably. I would think it's a safe assumption that there are sources of Newtypes that either weren't known or weren't complete, and one of the things we don't know is how Khosa became a Newtype, who he was affiliated with. Did Khosa tell you anything about himself?'

'He didn't tell me,' Barton says bluntly. 'Quat probably knew. They did that thing Quat does with people, where he reads them. We were at the fucking airport and Quat was half-dead from it, but he kept hanging on to talk to this man. Not-talk. He gave Khosa his location. I told him not to, but he did it. He wanted the guy to trust him. But I don't think they ever talked again. Quat would have told me.'

'You don't know anything about his Newtype ability? Where he went after that?'

'No.'

'Then why did you drop his name?' Toru asks curiously. 'What was the point?'

'Misdirection,' Barton explains wearily. 'You were digging into Quat's life and he was falling apart. I figured if you went chasing off after a rogue Preventer, you'd leave Quat alone. Obviously I overestimated your follow-through.'

There's a moment of chagrined silence there. Sally is not pleased. But she makes a note herself, and says, 'Let's get in contact. Khosa's going to be easier to locate than Heero, that's for certain. And if Quatre really is trying to find other Newtypes, it's possible he'll go to one who's reached out to him before.'

'He might run,' Dawes says. 'If Preventers show up at his door. He feared us that much before.'

'Mr Barton,' Sally says, 'how do you feel about taking a trip?'

'I'm not here to herd Newtypes for you,' Barton retorts. 'You said this was about finding Quatre.'

'If you have any other solid leads, speak up.' She waits expectantly. Barton scowls. 'You're a face he knows and he may trust you where he won't trust us. All we want from his is information.'

'I'd like to show you the data map we've prepared,' Toru says then. 'If you recognise any locations that are familiar to Quatre, places he might go. Places where there are people he might go to for help.'

Barton scrubs a hand through his hair. 'Fine,' he mutters. 'Whatever you say.'

 

**

 

'We were fifteen.' Barton pushes a smudge of mushy peas across his plate with his fork. Their choice of airport restaurant is a busy one, just past the height of the lunch hour. With Winner, they never would have been able to sit in public like this around so many people. Barton doesn't seem to like it, either, but he just claimed a chair where he could watch it all from the safety of a corner, and no-one is minding two junior agents, mild-mannered Dawes, and one not-so-mild guest. Barton's a black cloud in an otherwise cheery place, grim in the buffet collecting his food, grim in the check-out queue, grim now that they've got him seated in the most private space that can be managed in public. Toru takes the opportunity to dig through a dish of lasagna and suck down a fizzy.

'Fifteen,' Dawes echoes. 'All the Pilots were young.'

'Are we rehashing history?' Barton abandons his food and opens his water bottle instead. 'We had a relationship. Which would be illegal now under your government's laws.'

More of that 'your' government business. Toru wonders if it's Winner who started it, or Barton. 'Illegal then, too,' is all Toru says. Barton makes a sour face, and Toru forks in a rather over-large mouthful as Micheko kicks him under the table. 'So after the war?' he prompts around the hot noodle.

'After the war he signed away his family money. They might have been relieved about it, except that it was a scandal. No-one knew he was a Gundam Pilot, so it looked like he was running off to be gay. And it was illegal, as you pointed out. They sent police after us. Preventers even picked us up, once. That's a fun file. A pair of agents busted down the door of our motel. They handcuffed us.'

'If I recall the agents' report, they cuffed you because you broke one of their noses when they tried to move you out peaceably,' Dawes notes.

Barton just looks at him. 'I don't believe I have to answer for the pleasure of resisting a harassing arrest less than six months after the close of hostilities. They dragged him out naked. And he'd served with you during the Barton Rebellion.'

Micheko puffs her hair up with a sigh. 'Will it save time if I just apologise for everything Preventers have ever done, ever? We're on a time limit.'

Barton's jaw goes tight. But then when Toru expects an explosion, he only snorts out a laugh instead. 'He started showing symptoms of the Newtype stuff about a year after the war. Headaches. We didn't connect it to crowds at first. We were on the road by then. We tried doctors. A couple even thought it might be because we were colonial. That it was some kind of allergic reaction to Earth. I guess that was a trend that went around for a while. It was pretty obviously bunk, but we didn't know, then.'

'Junk science,' Dawes says. 'I've a sister who rings those telephone psychics. You can't convince some people.'

Barton finishes his water and rubs at his nose. 'The last thing we tried was his sister, Iraia. She's a surgeon. She put him in a chemically-induced coma. For seven days. But when we woke him up, he was worse than before. We had to leave Space; it was too hard to get away from people there. Eventually we found St John's. The Cabot Centre was a decision of last resort. He'd lost so much weight I could carry him one-handed. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. Heero had already disappeared. Merquise was making it, but he wasn't totally on, either. We thought-- maybe this was just what happened to Newtypes. We thought maybe it was a built-in self-destruct. That he would die. But he didn't.'

Micheko is writing as Barton talks. 'Has there been any contact since then with the sister? Irina--'

'Iraia. Not in years. She had a family. He couldn't see them, couldn't be part of her life.'

'But there's a good relationship. She would help him, if he went to her now.'

'He won't.' Barton nudges his empty water bottle across the table. 'He knows you'll interrogate her if he implicates her in his business.'

Toru rubs at sore neck muscles. 'He'll have to go to someone. He's going to need allies. Help. More money.'

'He's smart. He'll get it without hurting anyone.'

'What about Relena Peacecraft?' Toru presses him. 'She'd have diplomatic immunity from arrest and prosecution.'

Barton is not pleased with that guess. Dawes raises his eyebrows, thinking it through; Micheko looks at him, considers him, but he can't tell what she's thinking. Barton sucks in his cheeks, though, and says, 'Maybe.'

'Diplomatic immunity stops us, too,' Micheko says. 'We can't approach the Princess if she doesn't want to talk to us.'

'Anyone else?' Toru asks. 'Newtypes, maybe? He has to know more. There had to be more than three in the Resistance.'

'Why?' Barton says bluntly. 'It was expensive, it was time-consuming. I knew a man who tried it. He was too old, and it didn't work. Dekim Barton's son. There are a thousand reasons why it was easier to build a Gundam and train a pilot than it was to create a Newtype.'

'So what reception does Quatre think he's going to get from people out there? Newtypes aren't random coincidences. They're people with political convictions. Strong convictions,' Toru says, not without irony. 'And if all the Newtypes he's trying to find are people from other sides of the war, he can't expect all of them to welcome him just because they share a characteristic.'

'I have to piss,' Barton says, and stands. 'Don't bother searching my bag. There's nothing in it but underwear.'

Dawes scratches his nose as Barton leaves. 'Snipe hunt.'

'Maybe,' Micheko deadpans, mimicking Barton's tone. 'This does make me wonder one thing, though. We've established that all the Newtypes have mental-- issues. There's nothing saying Khosa's going to be one healthy piece, either.'

Toru hadn't thought of that. 'He was employed,' he says slowly. 'And he would have had to sit through the exams. We all did, in Preventers.'

'He was young when he joined.' Micheko taps the e-reader, its face blank while it's resting, but reminding him of Khosa's employment record on the case file. 'Maybe young enough that... nothing happens to them until they're old enough, right? Didn't Winner tell you that?'

Toru tries not to look away. It makes his fingertips tingle. 'Eighteen,' he says.

'Look, we're back at a fat lot of unknown,' Dawes points out. 'And I for one am going to search Barton's bag, so pardon me.'

Toru can crack a grin for that. 'It's probably booby-trapped.' He checks his watch. 'When he gets back, let's head to the gate. The only thing we can do is get there and see Khosa for ourselves.'

'Kind of makes you think we ought to have brought along some of Rzhevsky's drug, though,' Micheko says.

Toru looks sharply at her. 'Why?'

She blinks, surprised at him. 'In case he's violent, I guess. I mean, we don't know what we're walking into.'

'Why would he be violent?'

'Um, because a bunch of Preventers are about to show up at his door, and that might qualify as a worst nightmare for a scared Newtype?' Micheko stands and shoulders her carry-case. 'I didn't say it to offend you, Toru. Don't leap down my throat. It's our job to think about these things.'

Maybe, as Barton would say. But it doesn't sit very well, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to artist Kaeru Shisho for the fantastic fanart.


	14. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'I joined Preventers because I thought what they were doing was necessary. That it was time to band together, or all the factions would tear apart any chance of peace and make it too easy for someone patient to swoop in and claim victory over everyone made weak by in-fighting. And-- by then the world knew about Newtypes. And Preventers made it known they were interested.' Khosa curls his hands slowly into fists, and meets Toru's eyes. 'I didn't want to be an experiment. I didn't want to be a tool in a war-game. Yes. I hid inside the Corps, and I knew what I was doing when I did it.'_

Yet another airport.

Montréal-Trudeau is nice enough, as airports go, a place with a lot of glass and the kind of bland shopping-mall decorating that contains people in confined areas and shuffles them through wide corridors in slow-moving slogs like cattle chutes. Toru is grumpy, grainy-eyed, not nearly rested, and decides if he never has to make another cross-Atlantic flight that'll be just fine with him. How his parents found any joy in flight is beyond his ken.

Well, he's willing to allow that it's probably different in a mobile suit. He looks sideways at Barton, striding on sleepily beside him, and wonders if Barton's ever felt joy about anything. Even Winner.

The agents play roshambo for having to deal with the rental car, and Micheko loses, so Toru volunteers in her stead, and spends ninety minutes haggling with the desk clerk over the exact terms of insurance. The others have found tea when he emerges, weary but victorious, with a set of keys. Barton looks at him through wisps of steam, and hands Toru his bag to carry out into the weather.

It's a sign of how tired they're all getting, tired of this investigation, tired of the last few days, tired of the tension of Barton's unhappy presence amongst them, that they argue over whether the GPS is accurate about the directions to Ishaq Khosa's address, and not a one of them have ever been to Montreal. Dawes is driving, so Dawes decides, and when he goes the wrong way and the GPS has to struggle to bring him back to the main roads time and again, Micheko just gets more and more mutinous in her expression, and Toru decides the better part of valour is silence and hunched shoulders. Barton puts his feet on the back of Toru's chair and to all appearances goes to sleep.

They drive-- slowly and not always easily-- to Le Plateau-Mont-Royal. All that Toru knows about it he learnt from the internet during the flight. It's supposedly a dense neighbourhood, so Khosa must not have Winner's problem with crowds. There's Victorians and brownstones and gentrified cafes and bookshops, a working-class place turning the tide in better economic times since the war. It's a mix of Québécois and immigrants, so Khosa won't stand out there. It's got a metro line. It's supposed to be hip.

None of that tells him why Khosa would choose it. What meaning it has as a place, or even if there's any meaning at all. Barton may say that St John's was a bad decision, or a decision made because there was nothing else they could do, but it's still a place that means something, a place that's formed Winner into who he is now. All the things Toru knows about Khosa are like the things he knows about Le Plateau. Facts that don't add up. Preventer. Newtype. Canada, but not near enough to Winner to be about that. Discovered by Winner, but never in contact with him. It's a mystery. Toru doesn't like mysteries.

'Are we planning to just-- drive up and start this?' Micheko asks, when the GPS informs them that they're only ten minutes out. 'Do we stop and scope out the street first? Stake out his flat?'

Toru checks the street map on his reader. 'There's street-parking. We could. He might not be home even.'

'This is insightful,' Barton mutters, never opening his eyes.

Dawes catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror. 'Odds on Khosa running?'

'Station someone at the backdoor, you mean.' Toru uses his fingertip to mark it on the map, and the programme decorates the screen with an X. 'If we act threatening, odds are he'll react as if we're a threat. We could go in the same way we did on the Fishers.'

'The Fishers knew you were coming,' Micheko points out. She twists so she can see both Dawes in the driver's seat and Toru and Barton in the back. 'Mr Barton, do you think he'd remember you?'

'How should I know?' Barton asks reasonably, in his soft voice. He twitches at the collar of his coat when it bumps his chin, and settles his arms over his chest. 'It's been ten years. He was looking at Quat that day, not me. This is your plan. Not mine.'

Toru is too tired for this. 'We need common ground,' he says. 'Somewhere public that Khosa will be willing to talk, where it will be obvious we're not planning to arrest him. There's a little park up the street from his house. Mr Barton, you could ask to speak to him there.'

'About Newtypes.'

'About Quatre Winner. Don't give him an abstract reason to flee. Give him a concrete reason to care.' He passes Micheko the map to show her the place. 'Two of us in the car, until I give the all-clear.'

'You're going with Mr Barton?' Micheko asks, looking up at him.

One more bad idea. He knows, and he doesn't care, not if it gets him closer to answers. 'Yes,' he says, and they'll think what they like about him appointing himself. 'I've had the most contact with Quatre. Khosa might have a way of knowing that. It could be the credibility we need to convince him that Preventers are in this for good reasons.'

'Always assuming he still actually lives there,' Dawes says, and that more or less answers for that.

The house the GPS identifies as Khosa's address is indistinguishable from any other on the block. It's brownish-grey stone, three storeys above street-level and topped with a decorative turret and small balcony, the railing painted in peeling green. There's an iron gate in front of the steps to the second-storey door, and the mailbox by the door has letters in it, so someone, at least, lives there, and the little bit of garden to either side of the gate is looked after. Barton takes it in with a glance, and looks at Toru.

Toru tries not to feel like he's about to play breaking-and-entering with someone's life. It's no different than going into St John's, that first time. Not really.

'Okay,' he says, and opens his door. He steps out onto the pavement, and gestures Barton to follow him. 'Radios on, Walker, Dawes.'

He expects Barton to drag, crossing the street from where Dawes parked. But Barton falls into step right beside him, unhurried, maybe, but actively scoping out the surroundings, and noting everything that Toru is-- that the street is on a hill, with level access at the cross-street about a hundred feet away, that there's tree and shrub cover, that there's cameras aimed at them from three angles at least, that there are women sitting out on some of the balconies with children, men in the street talking. It's a public, protected place, and there's room to run for it if there's a confrontation. Winner's got the isolation of St John's, and a lot of open nature if he ever found himself being chased by a madman. Or a Preventer. But Khosa's got a strategy, too.

'Maybe this is why Rzhevsky couldn't get to him,' Toru observes, rubbing dry palms against his coat. 'If he's careful enough, there's always someone watching.'

'You said he got to Quat in the middle of London with full Preventers surveillance,' Barton shrugs. 'Security always has holes.'

'Then why leave him alone?'

'Ask him that.'

They mount Khosa's side of the street. 'Don't spook him,' Toru says, and puts his hand on Khosa's gate. 'We lose this lead, we've got almost nothing.'

'If you think I'm going to mess it up, you do the talking, Agent.'

He looks back at the car. He can't see their faces, his fellow Preventers, with the angle of sunlight on the windscreen. He tries to ignore his misgivings. He touches his gun under his coat, and pops the snap on the holster. Just in case.

Barton exhales something that might be a laugh. 'You look like you're about to walk into a snake pit, Kid,' he says, and climbs up the steps.

That's as may be. So it's kind of gratifying, in its way, that when Barton presses the doorbell, the door opens to a loaded gun in their faces.

Toru whips his out and up, finger on the trigger and unlocking the safety as he raises it. 'Preventers!' he says, keeping it quiet only by instinct, putting his back to those street cameras. 'We're not here for this. We just have questions!'

'I'm calling the police,' says a voice on the other side of the chained door, invisible past a sliver of dark. 'I'm on the phone now!'

'That's not going to end well for you.' Toru shoulders Barton out of the way and puts himself in the line of fire, right in front of the muzzle of that gun. 'We're not here for you. There's a Newtype who's missing. Quatre Winner. We're only here because we're trying to find him.'

There's a long pause at that. 'Quatre Winner?'

The gun still hasn't lowered. But he reaches behind him, to Barton, grips his shirt. Barton speaks softly, gently even, the way people talk to children or small animals. 'Maybe you remember me,' he says. 'I was with him, in Brussels when you met. Trowa Barton.'

He hears a car door. He doesn't want to turn, even to warn off Dawes and Micheko, but Barton does it for him, a negative swipe of the hand in the corner of Toru's vision, something definitive enough to keep them on their side of the street. But in view of Khosa's sight out the door. And they never did put anyone on the backdoor, after all.

Oh, what the hell. He's in this far, and none of it is going to make sense in the way he wants it to, so it's time to stop playing by the old rules. He shifts out of attack stance, lowers his gun. Opens his jacket and puts it up, openly, so Khosa can see. 'My name is Thorulf Peacecraft,' he says. 'You probably know about my father. Zechs Merquise. He was a Newtype, too.'

Barton goes still behind him. The gun in front of him dips an inch.

'It's time for us to stop hiding from each other,' Toru says. 'There's not enough of us left. Please help me find Quatre. He's important, and without him I'm not sure what the point of everything is. I just-- I just want to find him.'

The door shuts. Toru closes his eyes, rubs his hand over his mouth. Okay. That was always a possibility.

Then he hears the chain. Being removed. The door opens again, and this time it opens wider than an inch, wide enough to reveal the man standing behind it. Ishaq Khosa, who looks very normal, a very nice-looking man in his thirties, with curly dark hair and walnut-brown skin and wide black eyes, wide black eyes that lock onto Toru's face, scared of him and bulling through it. Khosa swallows, and says, 'I suppose you ought to come in, then.'

 

**

 

'Peacecraft?' Barton murmurs at him.

Toru jerks his jacket off, tosses it tensely at a chair. He hesitates on his holster, and takes that off too, draping it so that he can make a quick grab if it comes to that. 'Quatre never told you?'

'No. He didn't.' Barton's mouth is flat and so are his eyes, flat as mirrors. 'I don't know how I didn't see it, though,' he says then. 'You look just like him.'

Toru tugs at his ponytail. 'So I hear.'

Khosa returns from the kitchen. 'I'm out of milk,' he says, his soft accent subdued. 'I was planning to go out today.' His hands shake as he sets a plastic tray with bright flowers on the cocktail table, separates three cups on rattling saucers. Toru steps up to take his, rescues it just as it sloshes. He covers Khosa's hand with his.

'Thank you,' he says. 'Could I help you with that?'

Khosa licks his lips. 'You're not a Newtype.'

'No. My parents were. Are.' He nods at the couch, but Khosa is too jittery to sit. He sits first, to prove he really isn't going to bring the cavalry running in. He sips his tea. It's weak, barely more than water, with sugar crystals dusting the bottom of the cup. 'I don't have any talents, like you or Quatre. Well-- there is one thing. Sometimes, when Newtypes are together, or when they're using their ability, I can see it.'

Khosa blinks. Barton is behind him, but Toru can feel the weight of his stare, crawling on the back of his neck.

Khosa rubs a hand over the stubble on his chin. He sinks down onto his couch. 'You said... you said Quatre Winner... he's missing?'

'He was working on a case with us.' Toru sets down his tea set, props his elbows on his knees. 'There was another Newtype. A man named Ivan Rzhevsky. He was hunting other Newtypes. Murdering them. Quatre helped us find him and stop him.'

'Us,' Khosa interrupts, and now his look goes keen, first on Toru, up to Barton, over to Toru's jacket, with its badge. 'Preventers. You are a Preventer. They know who you are?'

'They know that I'm a Peacecraft,' Toru says. He looks at Barton. 'I don't know if you'll believe this or not, but until I met Quatre, I hadn't ever told anyone else about the-- I guess I didn't even know that I could see things about other Newtypes. Preventers don't know about that. Quatre didn't tell.'

'It seems he keeps a lot of secrets.' Khosa wipes his hands slowly down the length of his jeans, stopping at the knees. 'I'm sorry. I have so many questions, but I think I should start with this. I haven't seen or spoken to Quatre Winner in ten years. I don't know how I can help you, and I don't want-- I don't want Preventers to know this about me.'

'Because they'd arrest you,' Barton says, and comes to the couch now, to sit. He picks up a teacup, sips from it calmly. 'Or they'd just hound you for the rest of your life, trying to get you to come back, use your ability for them. I know. It's what they've done to Quat. And you worked for them, so they'll think you tried to infiltrate them, spy on them from the inside, that it was some kind of evil plan, hiding in the place you'd be least likely to be found.'

'It wasn't a plan!' Khosa is on his feet at that, agitated as he checks the windows, glares out at the car on the street where Dawes and Micheko are waiting, watching. 'It wasn't an evil plan,' he amends, weary now, slump-shouldered. He twitches at the curtain, and puts his back to the wall. Toru twists to look at him. 'I did do that, yes. It's a plain fact.'

Toru grips the edge of the couch cushion, plays a tassel of bright red thread through his hand. It's a nice house, like Winner's place was nice. It's hard to think that Rzhevsky really found most of the Newtypes on the street, insane and lost and feral. But that's the point, isn't it. People like Khosa and Winner survived because they found places under the radar. They're the exceptions.

'Who made you a Newtype?' Toru asks him.

Khosa looks up. His expression goes grim, before he looks away again. 'White Fang,' he says. 'Not during the war. I fought, but the organisation was young then. After the war, after-- your father... A man named Sogran. He wanted to get hold of a Gundam. We tried--' Khosa tugs at the curtain again, and shakes his head. 'This is ancient history now. And most of it was made moot by the Barton Rebellion. I joined Preventers because I thought what they were doing was necessary. That it was time to band together, or all the factions would tear apart any chance of peace and make it too easy for someone patient to swoop in and claim victory over everyone made weak by in-fighting. And-- by then the world knew about Newtypes. And Preventers made it known they were interested.' Khosa curls his hands slowly into fists, and meets Toru's eyes. 'I didn't want to be an experiment. I didn't want to be a tool in a war-game. Yes. I hid inside the Corps, and I knew what I was doing when I did it.'

'But then you met Quatre,' Barton says. 'And you realised how easy it would be to be found out.'

'He was good enough to keep my secret. The next one might not have been. Or one day Preventers would find a Newtype who would work directly for them, and it would be only a matter of time. It was tried, you know,' he tells Toru. 'They developed a test. It didn't work, but they thought they had a blood test, back in the early 200s. They've always suspected there are Newtypes in Preventers.'

'More than one,' Toru says. 'More than just you.'

Khosa puts up a hand. 'You came to talk about Quatre Winner. Don't ask me to give up others.'

'I'm not. Please don't misunderstand.' Toru tries to recover that one, afraid he's already lost what little trust got him in the door. 'I didn't mean it as a question, I-- I guess I just meant that it's inevitable that there'd be more than one.'

'Preventers are a target,' Barton murmurs. 'No-one's ever denied that. What we've denied is that this is the collective fault of all the Newtypes. That it's a collective problem all the Newtypes have to solve.'

'Exactly,' Khosa says. 'I don't know if there are or aren't. I know I never met any others at my duty station. But I wasn't in for long. And the truth is that I don't think a Newtype could hide there for long. There's too many watching eyes. Too many people to see when you're not able to be normal, like them.'

Why it occurs to him then, he doesn't know. He should be focussed on Khosa, focussed on Quatre. But he can't help but think-- Sally taught him meditation. She'd taught him because he'd been an awkward kid who'd wanted for a little positive adult attention, because he'd needed an outlet for the anxiety of a life without a lot of direction and supervision and help, but what she'd said when she'd made the offer was _It will help you when you can't control it._ He'd been grateful for her being there and he'd never asked what 'it' was. Never assumed it meant anything in particular. But maybe it had.

And maybe she wasn't worried about it anymore, maybe she'd come to the same conclusion Winner had-- that he was too old, that he didn't show the signs, that if he really had it, Rzhevsky and Winner and Khosa and who knew who else would have reacted to him a long time ago. Or he would have flagged on the psych exams when he tried to join Preventers... they had a profile. He fit the profile as much as Winner did. Except that Sally, his guardian, his friend, his parents' friend, had tried to tip the scales a little, just a little, to protect him. Give him a way to protect others from himself.

He tries to speak, and nothing comes out. He clears his throat while Barton looks at him. 'This case,' he says. 'Ivan Rzhevsky. He was murdering Newtypes. A lot of Newtypes. Forty-six.'

Khosa's face goes blank with shock. 'F-forty-six?' he repeats weakly. 'How? How could-- how could he do that? So many?'

'His ability is finding other Newtypes. He believes the programme is immoral, evil. That his duty is to eradicate it.' Toru tugs at his ponytail, pulls out the elastic. His head feels odd and swimmy, and he needs more air than he's getting, but he's afraid standing up won't be a good idea. 'Quatre interviewed him. Quatre-- he can understand what people are thinking. I believe he figured out how Rzhevsky was using his ability, enough maybe to replicate it, and that he's out there now trying to search out other Newtypes. And maybe we ought to just let him, let him warn them or just talk to them or whatever it is he's trying to do, except that he can't be around people. You saw that. More than a few people and it's devastating for him. Maybe even deadly.'

Khosa looks to Barton. Who says, 'You saw him that day. He could get lost. Lose consciousness. They would take him to a hospital, and that would be the worst possible place for him.'

Khosa tugs at his cuffs. 'I have nightmares,' he confesses in a mumble. 'I can hardly sleep, without... aid.'

'Most Newtypes seem to have a-- thing like that,' Toru says. 'So we're just trying to find him.'

'All right.' Khosa leaves the wall then, ventures back to the chair opposite the couch where Toru and Barton sit, though he only grips the back railing, warily keeping the furniture between them and himself. 'I accept that. I understand it. But again I have the same question. Why me?'

'Because we don't have anywhere else to start,' Toru admits. 'Because there's so few Newtypes left. We thought he might try to contact you. Try to find you. He knows that Ivan Rzhevsky didn't kill you.'

'You mean Preventers know this Ivan person didn't kill me.' Khosa looks up. 'They know about me now. You're not just here because of Quatre.'

'You explained it badly,' Barton says.

'There's no good way to explain it.' Toru presses his hands between his knees, fingertip lined up to fingertip. 'There's a list. Rzhevsky had a list, of Newtypes from all the places they were being created. He knew about you. However it was that he gathered his information, yes. He knew about you, and now Preventers has his list. But we're not here about that. We're not here to ask you any questions about your time in Preventers, and I won't write a report, I won't tell anything that's not relevant to what I'm doing right now. Which is only looking for Quatre Winner.'

Maybe Khosa believes him. Maybe not. But he sits, then, slowly easing into the chair, evaluating Toru now as a person, not a son of a Newtype, not a Peacecraft, not a Preventer even. It's a long time before he speaks. 'As you see,' Khosa says, 'he hasn't been here.' He gestures to the house around them, the furniture and the white-washed walls and the pretty grandfather clock on the wall. 'Will he know you came? If he can hear thoughts?'

Toru and Barton exchange a long look. 'He might guess we'd try you,' Barton says. 'That you'd be the easiest for us to track, and therefore that we'd go straight to you.'

'Your ability,' Toru says. 'I guess at the end of the day we came to ask if there's any possibility you can use your ability to help us find Quatre.'

The silence is even longer this time, with Khosa staring at the carpet. Is he using that ability now? Toru doesn't know. It's not like when Winner did, no physical sign of it. No glow. But he doesn't think so. It's just not an easy decision. Not an easy thing, to give up ten years, a lifetime really of trying to hide from exactly this kind of exposure. Maybe it's easier to become a radical than to live with the consequences. Forty-six dead, and maybe now Winner, one last tenuous connection, someone Khosa cared just enough about to let an active-duty Preventer in the door. His own kind, and not enough of them left any more to say no. He knows what Khosa will say, because he knows what he would say if it were him.

'I'm grateful to him, and I'm sorry for him, wherever he is,' Khosa mumbles. 'But this is too much to ask. Preventers...'

'Know about you,' Barton says. 'You can't close that door now. I'm sorry. But this kid didn't do it to you, and he's probably the only one who can convince them to walk away from you once you've helped them.'

'I can try,' Toru corrects, uneasy with that not-quite accolade. 'I don't think there's any plan out there to drag you into this. There wasn't even a plan to drag Quatre in, except we needed him to help us with Rzhevsky.'

Khosa presses his shaking hands over his eyes. He leaves red marks when he lowers them. 'I need something of his,' he says raggedly. 'Something he owned, something important to him, or something he wore, maybe.' He points out the window. 'Those Preventers out there. They don't hear a word of this. They cannot witness it. I shouldn't even be letting you two see. And I want no recording of it, and your word that you'll write nothing of it later. No case files, no secret reports. You can have the results of what I tell you, not the method of it.'

It's going to happen. Toru is so relieved he agrees with a hurried nod, no argument at all. 'Something he owned? We might have to send for it. We can get a hotel. Wait for them to overnight it.'

Barton leans down to put his tea on the table. He makes a fist of his hand, rubs his thumb over his fingers. 'I have a letter he wrote,' he says. 'You're not going to... you're not going to destroy it?'

Khosa shakes his head faintly. 'No. No, I won't harm it. I only need to touch it.'

Barton has it in his pocket. The letter that Winner wrote to him, the night he disappeared from London. It's got a new crease in it, folded in half over the original thirds. Barton handles it tenderly, giving it up only reluctantly. It slides across the table, only a few inches, as if it's reluctant, too, reluctant to get too far away from Barton. When Khosa bends to take it up, Barton licks his lips, looks away.

'What are you going to do?' Toru asks. 'I mean-- you don't have to tell me. I just-- Quatre told me once that he couldn't read anything off inanimate objects. That people's personalities and thoughts didn't linger on the things they held.'

'Maybe for him.' Khosa unfolds the letter as if it's a treasure. As if it's a burning coal, singeing him on every fingerpad. 'For me, life is a hazard of other people's belongings. Hairbrushes. Family rockers. Old books. Mobile phones, those are the worst. When I touch a mobile phone, I see the web of everyone who's ever been connected by it. Shouting across the distance.'

'Do you wear gloves?'

Khosa glances up. 'Gloves?'

'If touching things is the problem.'

Khosa rubs his nose, and unfolds the letter. 'It happens even through fabric. Leather.' He spreads the letter on his knees, and smooths it flat with his hands. He bows his head over it, and falls still.

Barton's hand drops to the couch. He taps.

At first Toru ignores it. Whatever Khosa's doing, Toru wants to study it. But he's just sort of sitting there holding the letter, and it's not that exciting. And Barton keeps tapping. Toru only realises belatedly that it's in pattern.

Not just pattern. Code. It's one of the old field codes, one of the codes used by the Resistance. He learnt about it in the Academy. That's a word-- that's an interrogative, and Barton's getting impatient, repeating it--

_Do you see anything?_

Toru shakes his head in a negative. No glow.

It's weird, the glow. Now that he thinks about it. He saw it when Winner and Rzhevsky were together, yes, but why would he also see it when Winner was in the pool? Or on film that time? What made those times different than other times Winner was using his ability?

So he saw it in the pool, the first time. Winner had been using his ability before that, but the pool made the difference. Water? It was raining the night Rzhevsky found them in London, and he saw the glow then too. But there wasn't any water involved in interrogation rooms and interviews. Just two Newtypes. Double the power, double the glow-induction?

It wasn't the pool that made him see it. He'd been in the water with Winner for a while before he'd actually seen the glow. He'd been in the water with Winner, to help him float, and Micheko had been by the pool with them, and it had been quiet and cold and--

He'd meditated. And that night in London right before Rzhevsky had approached Winner, Toru had been meditating in the van.

He doesn't pause now to reflect on that. He just closes his eyes and slows his breathing, wills his heart to a slumbrously low thud. The room around him falls away. Montreal falls away. The tic-toc of the grandfather clock on the wall sounds like thunder for a moment, but he ignores it, and it fades. He imagines his eyes as stones, dropping into deep wells of blackness.

And then he opens them. And Khosa has a soft gold aura all around him.

Okay, Toru thinks distantly. One question answered. Sort of.

Whatever Khosa's doing with the letter, he's done with it now. He folds it again, and extends it to Barton. Barton slips back into his shirt pocket, over his heart.

'He was in Britain when he wrote it,' Khosa says. 'I saw water, then. There was a boat?' Toru nods, not wanting to give anything away until Khosa speaks his piece in full. 'He's going to head south. I don't know when he'll get there, but he'll be in India, eventually.'

'India?' Barton repeats sharply. 'He doesn't know anyone in India.'

'I'm fairly sure it's India. He'll ride an express train.'

Toru pulls a pad of paper from his coat and tries to spell that. 'Do you know when?'

'No. I'm sorry. I see the what, not the when. And no, I don't know who he'll find there. If there are any Newtypes there. I don't see anything but the person directly connected to the object.'

Toru draws a circle with his pen, digging in with the nib. 'If it's a train, there's more than one station. Any sense of where he's riding to? Or even from?'

Khosa hesitates. 'I don't read Hindi. I can try to draw what I saw, but it may not be accurate enough to help you.'

'I'll take anything.' Toru hands over his pad. 'This was immensely helpful, sir. I can't say that enough.'

'He won't stay,' Khosa says, as he moves the pen awkwardly over the paper. 'You have to know that.'

'You saw that?'

'No.' Khosa struggles with something loopy. 'But it's what happens to all of us. It's not that we don't want what the rest of you have. Permanence, and happiness. Careers and families. But we can't have it, and it's too hard to be around it knowing that. He won't stay.'

Barton shoves to his feet and walks somewhere behind the couch. Khosa offers Toru the pad. Toru uses his phone to take a picture of Khosa's drawing, and sends it to Micheko and Dawes in the car. _C if u can translate this,_ he texts.

'Thank you,' he says again, and stands. 'We don't have to bother you any more. But I want to leave you my card. You can ring me. Any time, for any thing. Even if it's only to talk to another human being who has a little idea of what you're going through.' He takes one from his wallet, and puts it on the table, beside his tea set. 'I hope you will call.'

Khosa takes the card. He turns it over in his fingers, rubs over the embossed Preventers logo. 'Please tell Quatre I hope he would do the same with me, if he ever needs my help.'

'I will,' Toru says, but he already knows the truth. The minute they're gone, Ishaq Khosa will disappear again. And this time he won't leave a forwarding address. It makes him sad. It makes him feel sad, and odd and sort of guilty for it, even though he didn't make the problem, didn't make Newtypes, didn't make their sorrows, didn't make the world they can't live in. But he brought Preventers here, him and Barton, and now they're chasing Khosa out of a home where he's found peace. It doesn't have to be that way, but it will be.

'Thank you,' he says again, suddenly miserable, and can't meet Khosa's eyes as they let themselves out the door.

 

**

 

The GPS identifies a coffee shop four blocks from Ishaq Khosa's house. It takes Toru ten minutes to walk there, ten minutes to stand in queue for drinks, and ten to walk back. Unfortunately, thirty minutes doesn't produce any epiphanies. It doesn't even particularly make him feel better.

There's dead silence in the car when he climbs back in. Micheko gets a café moka, Dawes gets a plain black tea with milk-- he'd had to wrangle for that-- and Barton gets jus d'orange frais pressé. Toru gets a bacon benedict, because he was buying and because disastrous encounter or not, his stomach isn't paying any attention to his mood. That makes him feel even glummer.

Barton takes his cup without looking away from his window. Micheko turns from the front seat to look at the two of them in the back, and says nothing to help. Dawes at least murmurs a thanks for the tea, toasting him in the rear-view mirror.

Toru clears his throat. 'Uh, any luck on the translation?' he asks.

Micheko twists from the front to show Toru her phone. 'We got back about three million possibles. Barton says it's probably something to do with India? We're trying a narrower search now, running it qualified against Hindi and Urdu.'

'Yeah.' Toru scrubs his hands on his knees. 'Barton briefed you?'

'Oh, certainly,' Barton mutters. 'That's me. Communicating freely.'

Toru can't help a smile at that one. 'Got it.'

Dawes turns on the engine to defrost the windscreen. 'So,' he says. 'I'm assuming from the general tenor that it was bad in there.'

Barton pops off the lid of his orange juice and sips. 'Bad is an understatement,' he mutters.

'Quatre didn't come here, and I don't think he will,' Toru says. He's too hot. Too much walking. He strips his scarf and opens his coat. 'They haven't--' He has no idea what to say about it. 'He did his thing. His ability. He says Quatre's going to end up in India. On a train.'

Micheko leaps on that. 'What's his ability? Seeing the future?'

'He didn't tell us.' Barton says it so blandly Toru almost believes it, for a second. He catches Toru's eyes over the rim of his juice. 'He went into another room and when he came back he had the information on a platter for us. Newtypes aren't stupid. Just a little off.'

Toru rubs his nose. He doesn't comment.

'You didn't try to interview him?' Dawes presses them.

'What part of the Newtypes are hostile is such a foreign concept to you Preventers?' Barton slumps low on his bench and props a knee on the back of Micheko's seat. 'Let me spell this out. None of them will ever welcome you. None of them want you to show up on their doorsteps, especially toting guns. And none of them are ever going to voluntarily give up information on another Newtype, unless they're a murderer like Ivan Rzhevsky. And by and large they're not.'

'Happily,' Dawes says flatly. 'But that doesn't change our approach.'

'Shouldn't it?'

'Khosa played it close to the vest,' Toru interrupts. 'We didn't really get a lot.'

'You were in there almost an hour,' Micheko says. 'Don't blame us for being curious. We came a long way.' She stirs her mocha and licks the stick clean. 'I had money on two and half hours.'

Dawes snorts. 'You were never going to win. Although I did think we'd get to at least the full hour.'

'Look, we know India is a thing now.' Toru removes his e-reader from his suitcase and opens it on his lap, brings up the case file. 'Let's compare the data from Rzhevsky's list with the files and see if we can pinpoint any Newtypes in India. It might help us narrow down that drawing Khosa gave us.'

'India is a damn big country.' Dawes props his elbows on the steering wheel, staring across the street at Khosa's house. 'Even Rzhevsky only stopped in Mumbai. Look, even if we assume Winner heads for a major city, we'd be damn lucky to find him without any means of tracking him. We don't even know when he's supposed to get there. It could be years, yeah?'

'Possibly. I guess so.' Toru pages through his datapoints. It doesn't seem likely that Winner would wander around out there, and if there was going to be a middle destination between Britain, water, and India, it seems likely that Khosa would have mentioned it. If he'd known about it. If his ability worked that way. 'We need another Newtype,' he says.

'Well, we left the last one barricading his door behind us,' Barton points out.

'Khosa's never going to come with us. Would he? He wouldn't.'

'I'm sorry, you haven't said yet why you need a Newtype.'

'To feel the Flash around Quat,' Barton guesses. 'Otherwise you really don't have a way of tracking him.'

Micheko puts her shoulders to the window, twisting a lock of her dark hair over her finger. When it falls, it catches on the mandarin collar of her shirt, curling. Toru curls his fingers into the fabric of his trousers.

She says, 'The way I see it, there's two paths here. Don't leap on me for saying this, but I'm going to anyway. We already have a Newtype. Ivan Rzhevsky.'

Dawes nods slowly with pursed lips. 'He's got months to live, that one. Not saying no, but there's the matter of extradition law, and whether he'll even make it to India, if that's really where we're going.'

'And whether he'll cooperate,' Barton adds. 'He could feel the Flash and still fuck you three ways to Friday.'

Toru holds up a hand just to halt the cross looks Dawes and Micheko cast Barton's way. There's not enough collective sleep in his group to tolerate that kind of language-- besides which, he thinks Barton was actually trying to be helpful with that. 'You've been around Quatre for decades. Can he hide the Flash, when he feels it? I can usually tell when he's reading someone.'

Barton opens his mouth, and closes it. 'How can you tell?' he asks finally, cautiously.

Not asking about the glow. Nice of him. 'He squints, and he's concentrating hard, and he stops paying attention to what's around him. I don't know if I've ever seen him feel the Flash, though. It might be on tape from London, when Rzhevsky first approached him-- no. There was that, um, fog. It obscured the tape.'

Dawes shrugs that off. 'What I'm hearing is that Rzhevsky's not a viable option, because we'd have to be watching him every second to figure out if he is or isn't trying to hide the Flash from us. We'd be better off with a cooperating Newtype.'

'Like Ishaq Khosa,' Micheko says. 'Do you think he would, Toru? Cooperate?'

'We don't know if he has special needs the way Quatre does,' Toru says. 'He mentioned nightmares. Travel might not be possible, or it might be really difficult. He was clear that he doesn't want to work with Preventers, so that's a pretty insurmountable issue.'

'Is it? Mr Winner didn't want to work with us at first, but he did anyway.'

'To catch a murderer,' Toru points out. 'This is about tracking down someone who doesn't want to be found. Quatre ran away because we were forcing him to answer questions about Newtypes. I don't think Khosa is going to be okay with running down a fellow Newtype just to drag him back to that.'

'So we use the rest of Rzhevsky's list and hope we find a Newtype who will cooperate?' Micheko waits on him expectantly. 'I'm saying we've got a basis for action here. If nothing else, we could threaten Khosa with an investigation into subversive activity in Preventers. Who knows what he learnt about Newtypes while he was in the Corps. Or what he changed in the records in an attempt to throw us off.'

'Now wait on this,' Dawes cautions her, before Toru can retort, before Barton can do more than shake his head in total lack of surprise. 'Commander Po was clear. We're not ready to instigate an investigation into Newtypes in Preventers, and if we threaten it, we've got to be ready to back it up. We can't arrest Khosa without a charge, and I'm not writing that on the form.'

According to Rzhevsky's data, he killed every Newtype he found in India. Two. Just two. Achala Kamal and Viraja Chakrabarti. They'd both been homeless in Mumbai, living in the slums, and Rzhevsky had killed them and left them right in the open, dumping them in the trash. There probably hadn't been an investigation, or not much of one. Achala had been Alliance, like Rzhevsky-- probably one of the ones he'd picked for the programme himself-- but Viraja had been young, in his mid-twenties. From one of the other sources after the wars. And evidently Rzhevsky had been satisfied that he'd done enough in India, because he hadn't stayed, and he hadn't bothered to collect more than cursory data on both his victims there. He'd been in China days later, moving on. Whoever Winner thinks he's going to find in India, it's not anyone Preventers knows about.

Micheko's phone beeps. 'Search results,' she says, picking it up to look. 'Well, narrowing it down helped. Now we only have a couple of thousand results to plow through.'

'We ask,' Toru decides. 'We start with asking him to come with us. And we'd better ask quick, because if I were Ishaq Khosa, I'd be packing and calling for a cab right now.'

That turns out to be an understatement. When they exit their vehicle, they catch Khosa going out the back, loading a trash pail with large black bags, and lighting it on fire.

'On the ground!' Micheko shouts, sprinting from their car and drawing her weapon. Barton glares at Toru as if it's his fault, and he is wincing, but Dawes is already hot on her heels. There's a chase. It's short-- there's garden fences behind the row houses, and Khosa doesn't have far to go before he can't jump a rail. Micheko corners him, her gun pointed to the ground, at least, not at him, and Dawes cuts off the other angle, coming at him from the right and blocking all escape.

Toru is torn between trying to stop it from getting ugly, and stopping that blaze in the bin. He chooses the bin. It's papers, he thinks-- papers and that's probably a computer in the bottom, going up in flame. Whatever it is in there, it's important enough to try to destroy in front of Preventers, before they so much as drove away from his house. And even if it is a gross invasion of privacy with no provocation and no justification, Toru takes a deep breath and goes running for the rain barrel under the eaves.

There's a hose. Toru whips the spigot on, grabs the dribbling end just as it begins to squirt, and hauls it back to the bin. He gets a face of burning ash when he sprays the bin with water, and throws up an arm to protect himself. He tries to be conservative with the water, to stop from ruining anything that's not already burnt beyond recovery. When the fire has died down enough, he kicks the bin over to its side, and is rewarded with a slosh of dirty water over his shoes. He nudges the shell of a book and yes, that is a computer, and a pile of discs as well, damaged but maybe still readable.

Barton says, 'I thought you weren't arresting him?'

'They're not.' He wipes wet from his face. 'They can't. They won't.'

'Maybe you better tell them that.' But when he drops the hose and turns to go, Barton stops him. 'If they touch him, he'll have a bigger problem. You need to be in control, because he won't be.'

Toru sucks in a deep breath. 'Right. Okay.'

'I'm telling you, just stay back,' Khosa is telling the other agents. His hands are outstretched, imploringly, but he's got his back to an ivy spray, there's a tree blocking him to the left, and he looks desperate. He lights on Toru and pleads. 'Please, Agent. I'm not a threat! I'm not armed!'

'I know.' Toru squeezes between Micheko and Dawes, pressing down on Micheko's gun hand as he passes. 'I'm sorry about this. This is a mistake. Let's go inside and talk again.'

He sees in that moment how this is going to happen. They don't want to arrest him, but it's going to happen. They'll bring him in for suspicious behaviour, and it is, in their eyes-- it can't be anything else. Because they've never lived a life with any room in it for the doubts that come with making decisions that put your future in danger, put your family and your friends and your very security beyond your reach. Micheko's father may have died in the war, but she doesn't understand in her bones what it means to lose someone because they chose, because they made a choice to leave it all behind for something greater. If Micheko had gone to St John's that first day, if it had been Dawes who'd tried to convince Winner to join them in hunting Rzhevsky, Winner would have turned them away at the door, would have dismissed them and never thought twice about it. They don't know. It's not about thinking you're a Newtype, or worrying about your place in life, or not having parents who were there for you for whatever reason. Winner's been telling him the reason all along. Sometimes, maybe even just once in a lifetime, there's something worth it.

All right. All right. So, what the hell. He's been working himself into this corner. Commander already thinks he's in Winner's pocket. He wishes he was. He wishes he was, because he knows he's making this choice for Winner, not for Ishaq Khosa, but Ishaq Khosa is the one who's standing in front of him, and Ishaq Khosa is the one who needs it right now. So what the hell. Sometimes it's got to be worth it.

Toru puts out his hand, but doesn't touch. He just makes sure the invitation is there, and clear. 'Let's go inside,' he says. 'Just you and me, okay.'

Khosa flinches back from him. He's breathing heavy, almost hyperventilating, so Toru keeps at the distance he's at, both hands out now, palms up, open. Not pressuring. Khosa wipes a shaking hand over his sweating face, and nods. Toru backs up, and Dawes makes room for him. Khosa comes out of the shrubbery, stumbling just a bit. Toru provides a ready arm, but doesn't touch.

'Toru?' Micheko asks, sliding the safety back on her gun.

'We don't need you,' Toru tells her shortly. 'This will go better without any Normals around.'


	15. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'I'm not a Newtype, but I'm something.' Now he faces her. 'My father was. My mother was. That makes me something. Even if all it makes me is someone who can't be a spectator while we blunder around ruining their lives.'_

'Try Cherokee Chants,' Toru says, pointing to the download. 'I kept trying to get Quatre to use that. He likes rock music, though.'

'Rock music.' Khosa shakes his head. 'He's starting to be more myth than man to me.'

'Meeting him will cure that.' Toru uses his teeth on the stubborn plastic packaging holding the earplugs he just bought in the airport giftshop. 'Here. Okay. The next step is harder around this many people. Close your eyes. Imagine it's darker. Imagine it's quieter. Practise breathing the way I showed you.'

The steward interrupts their progress by arriving with their drinks, juice for both of them. Toru thanks the man in a murmur, lays his hand on Khosa's wrist, over his pulse. Rapid. It's not like Winner, afraid of the people. Afraid of what's going to happen when they land.

It's a lot of fear to live with. To have been living with for a decade, and maybe before that. Convinced so much that the agent sitting next to you is going to turn on you any second, that there will be cuffs, that there will be a prison cell, that there will be questions that will become interrogations that will become experiments. Ivan Rzhevsky is finding out how that works now, but he's got a guaranteed out. All Khosa has is a lifetime of paranoia that's just been proved right.

Barton is two seats ahead of them, filling in the crossword and staring moodily out his window. Dawes and Micheko are seated three rows back from them, behind the plane's emergency exit. They're all in plainclothes, of course, but Dawes has his badge on its chain about his neck, tucked into his shirt pocket, and when he shifts its visible, a thing waiting on them, ready to be pulled out if Khosa tries anything. They have a newly purchased duffel checked with the rest of their baggage, holding all of Khosa's burnt relics. They'll examine it back at Headquarters. If Khosa signs the waivers. He will. He doesn't really have a choice about it, even if they're all pretending he does. Pretending he had any choice about boarding a flight to Brussels.

Khosa lets out a frustrated sigh. 'I can't.'

'It takes time getting used to it. But it does help.' Toru pulls the elastic out of his hair and rests his head against the cushion behind him. 'You're tired. Stressed. You won't have a chance to sleep for a while. This will help.'

'In Brussels,' Khosa says. He fidgets with his juice, centring it on the cocktail napkin. 'I want to meet this man. Ivan Rzhevsky.'

Toru rolls his head. 'Why?' he asks, surprised by that. 'He's not-- well, nice. He's crazy, I think. He killed a lot of Newtypes. He tried to kill Quatre. Me. That's how we caught him.'

'I knew your father. Not well, but I knew him.' Khosa sips his juice with a grimace. 'He was a very grand man. Educated and noble. My father was a taxi driver in Chitral. I was less than no-one, but your father was good at noticing people like me. He would always make a point of stopping and asking someone's name, when he walked through the troops. He asked mine once. My friends were envious.'

'I didn't know he did that.' Toru tugs at his hair. His hair is like his father's, the colour at least. He's never consciously kept it long because his father did, but he's never liked cutting it, either. He wraps the elastic back around the length of it and snaps it tight. 'I'm not sure that really answers for why you want to meet Ivan Rzhevsky.'

'I think...' Khosa sets his glass down and leaves it. He tucks his hands under his elbows, holds them close to his chest. 'I can't imagine doing what he did. Tracking down someone just like you, someone who's been through exactly what you have. Tracking them down to do something awful to them. And yet here I am about to do it to Quatre Winner. I think maybe what I want is the reassurance that I'm not as bad as I could be. I won't really hurt Quatre. I won't kill him. Preventers won't kill him.'

'No. We won't.' Toru scratches at his neck. 'It hasn't been sitting with me all that well, I guess. I do think he's in danger, because I think he was stupid, running off like this. But I don't know anymore if the reasons for trying to find him are good enough to actually be doing it.' He wants more legroom than he has, he wants more air. He hates flying. 'Barton thinks he's looking for Heero Yuy.'

'Who is? Ivan Rzhevsky?'

'Quatre.' Toru drinks his tomato juice. 'Although I guess Ivan Rzhevsky looked for Heero Yuy too. He says he never found him.' He chomps a bit of ice between his molars. 'He didn't really seem bent out of shape about missing him. Which is sort of weird, when you think about it. If your self-appointed mission is to hunt down Newtypes, wouldn't you want to get the most important ones? He says he looked for Quatre for years, even hacked into Quatre's family's email and phone records. But he doesn't seem to have looked all that hard for Heero Yuy.'

Khosa may not have been a Preventer in a long time, but he was obviously enough of one to catch the whiff of a mystery in that. 'Heero Yuy, the Gundam Pilot? I didn't know he was a Newtype.'

'Only him and Quatre, out of the Pilots.' Toru's e-reader is in his carry-on, so he unclips his seatbelt, never mind the sign, and stands up to fetch it from the overhead bin. There in the side-pocket. He falls back into his seat, flipping it on. 'The trail's been cold on Yuy for a long time, but no-one else was looking. Rzhevsky was looking. It's odd that he gave up when it comes to both Pilots.'

'It's possible to be a little star-struck. Even in our unique community.'

'You knew my--' He checks the distance, just to be sure of it. Dawes is dozing, maybe, and Micheko is watching the inflight movie. 'You knew my father was a Newtype, when you met him. You would have felt the Flash.'

Khosa hunches his shoulders a little. 'I wasn't-- at that time. I had some abilities, I could tell things about people, a little. Not always. But it wasn't until Sogran that I-- changed.'

'I'd really like to talk to you more about that, sometime.' Toru runs a search on the Rzhevsky case file for Heero Yuy. 'But I guess what I'm asking is that-- okay, this requires some explanation. We had a theory, well, a half-baked kind of theory, that some Newtypes are more powerful than others. That Quatre was one of them. I guess it makes a certain amount of sense that Rzhevsky is, too. But maybe it all feeds into the same delta. He kept those heads.'

Khosa stares at him wide-eyed. 'Heads?'

'Never mind.' The heads. Of Newtypes that had been powerful enough that Winner had been able to feel them even after they'd been dead months. 'What was it like when you met Quatre?'

'Like?'

'The Flash. It was strong? Quatre said it's like dislocation. Like waking up from a dream too fast.'

'I suppose,' Khosa agrees slowly. 'It's like... it's a bit like... I remember an acrid taste in my mouth. A blinding light across my eyes. And he was far across the office. Just coming off the lifts. And he knew I was there. He looked right for me. I pretended not to see him, I went to a utility closet. I... I had planned for it. Of course. I had a go-bag, I had a fake email account, untraceable, so I could pretend I'd had a message about a family member being ill.' He drops his head to his seat-back and drags his hand through his thick hair. 'I had a plan. I didn't know how hard it would be. I was panicking.'

'But you followed him to the airport, Barton said. When you're with another Newtype, do you feel the Flash the whole time? Or only when you first meet? When Rzhevsky and Quatre are together, it's like they can't look away from each other.'

'It fades,' Khosa says, dispelling that idea. 'It's quick. A literal flash.'

'Oh.' Toru's search of the case file only returns two mentions of Heero Yuy. One from the initial interview in London, and one from the follow-up with Quatre in Brussels. No indication at all why Rzhevsky wouldn't have extended more effort, every effort, in hunting him down. 'Maybe it would be a good idea for you to meet Rzhevsky. We didn't get as far as we wanted in interviewing him. There's still a lot of questions about what he did, and why he did it.'

'That's why you want me to come back to Europe? I thought you wanted me to find Quatre.'

'I do. We do.' Toru rubs his hands over his face, and blows out a deep breath. 'I'm sorry. I don't know if I've had a chance to really figure all of this out yet.'

Khosa quirks a smile. 'Maybe you should meditate on it.'

Toru laughs at that. 'Yeah. Maybe.' He rubs his achy eyes, and rests his head back. 'Would you ever consider coming back, to Preventers, I mean? If you could just be yourself. Out in the open.'

Khosa reaches over him to hand their empty cups to the steward passing by, puts up his tray, sits back in his seat. 'It wouldn't ever be in the open,' he says quietly. 'It wouldn't ever be the same. They won't accept a Newtype working alongside them. How could they? It would be like your two friends back there. They'd never trust me. Never believe me when I tell them I really can't use my ability this time, or the next time, the way they want me to. They'll take my refusal as deliberate obstruction. Some day. And then it's only a matter of time.'

'Maybe,' Toru says. 'Maybe not. Maybe not if there were enough Newtypes. If there were enough of you, all working together.'

Enough Newtypes. In a few years, if they can build a programme with what Ivan Rzhevsky tells them, who knows. Maybe so.

Khosa tugs the window screen low, leaving them in dim. 'What's going to happen when we land?' he asks.

It's not a simple question, even if it's posed that way. Or a question with a single answer, maybe that's more the truth. 'We go straight to Headquarters,' Toru answers. 'From there, it depends on my command. And I don't really know what they'll do. I know what I hope they'll do. But I can't honestly say that will happen.'

'They could arrest you for obstruction,' Khosa murmurs, his eyes ahead, unfocussed, not looking back there at Dawes and Micheko, who have been pretending not to watch these long hours. 'We might end up cell mates, you and I.'

'I hope not.' Realistically-- it's a low probability. For the same reason they didn't want to arrest Khosa, they won't dare arrest Toru for doing his job and bringing him in, however he managed it. But he knows Dawes made a phone call to Commander Po. He knows Micheko spoke to her too. He can guess what they said. He and Khosa spent hours alone together, and he knows what impression he gave them. He hasn't tried yet to correct it. He doesn't know if he wants to. If they're even wrong about him.

'You may not see me for a while,' he admits finally. 'You may not... you may not ever see me again.' Khosa doesn't say anything, and Toru finds it unexpectedly difficult to finish, to find the words to say what he's trying to say. 'If that's, um, if that's what happens, I just... I'm sorry. It really wasn't the plan. This. Dragging you into this, this deeply. If you end out doing it without an ally, that would be the worst case scenario.'

'We're not that badly yet,' Khosa replies softly. 'But if I don't ever see you again, then I think I ought to ask.'

'Ask?'

Khosa looks at him full on. Sombre, in the dark of their row, in odd rushing vacuum of the plane. He says, 'Do you really want me to find him?'

There's not one true answer for that, either. Khosa doesn't press him. He puts in his earbuds, chooses Cherokee Chants, and closes his eyes. Soon, his breathing is slow and rhythmic. Toru watches, but only for a minute. He stares at the reading light overhead, until it burns his eyes.

 

**

 

Their plane is met by an armed escort on landing.

Dawes and Micheko go off toward check-out with Barton and Khosa. Micheko sneaks a glance back, solemn and troubled. Toru watches them go, impassive-- or pretending to be, anyway. Resigned to it, at least. Knowing it's inevitable and that he'll have to handle it no matter what it brings him, if that wraps up into a tidy emotional package.

The escort isn't an agent he knows, but he has height and at least two stone of weight over Toru, his biceps bulging the seams of his suit coat. He takes Toru's bag from him, carries it on the opposite shoulder from that gun holstered at his hip. The only words he speaks are, 'This way,' and Toru doesn't waste any on him, either. He just follows silently.

There's a company car, a plain black Renault with a scratch on the passenger door. Toru belts himself in, lowers the sun shade. His escort crams his hulking body in, tight against the steering, and turns on the navigation unit. He enters an address. So. Wherever they're going, it's not Headquarters, and it's not a Preventers' property, or at least not one that's familiar to a field agent. Assuming his bulky friend is a field agent. The screen is angled away, and Toru can't read it. He refuses to speculate. He turns his face to the window, and watches the roads go by.

They drive away from the city centre. Toward the Zenne Valley, if he's remembering his rail geography; that's the gauge for the Eurostar they're passing, which puts them on the route to Anderlecht. Some inner part of him sighs at this. He knows, now, where he's going. Knows why the agent didn't know the address or the way to it. Knows who's going to be there when they reach the final destination.

They cross one of those little bridges that litter Brussels by the dozens, a low arch over the dirty sluggish water of the Zenne, and then they're amid a little bustle of mid-morning traffic, commuters in cars just like theirs all trying to get out of the same place they're trying to get into. A tram blows carelessly past them, secure in its right-of-way, and the agent curses under his breath as he pumps the brakes. Toru pays no mind. He's looking out the window for the outdoor market. Is it still there? He'd loved it, when he was a child. It had always seemed so huge, row after row of marvels. It had probably only been fifteen, twenty stalls, vegetables and cheap trinkets, but he'd saved his coins every week all the same, imagining his treasures there.

Then they round a corner, and turn onto a street of terraced houses. The walls are all the same beige-y sandstone, but wild ivy in rich reds and greens grows around the windows, and the second storey balconeys all have laundry or bistro tables or bright lace curtains, and the tightly-wound feeling in his stomach goes away completely. Maybe she meant something, bringing him here. Maybe it's a strategy, or some kind of test, but he can't even mind if it is. It's home.

The agent parks in the street, across from the address just as the navigation unit beeps. He turns off the car and looks at Toru. Toru ignores him. He lets himself out, and stands out onto the pavement. He waits for a passing van to go by, and then he crosses the street. He almost lets himself in, pure habit. He makes himself knock on the front door, instead.

Sally opens it. She's not in uniform. She's in her bathrobe, actually, the tatty old blue bathrobe he'd bought her for some forgotten Christmas long ago. Her honey-coloured hair is damp, loose over her shoulder, and her feet are bare, small on the cold tile in the foyer.

'I forgot you gave back your key,' she says.

'When I moved out two years ago,' Toru reminds her. He puts his hands in his pockets. She watches him do it, so maybe it's deliberate on both their parts, this game. She's not wearing that robe on accident. But he's not here to play her adopted son, either. 'Do we do this standing in the street?' he asks.

'No.' She looks past him, to the agent in the car. He hears it pull away, with his bag still inside it. Sally steps back, the door wide for him. He steps through, and she locks them both inside.

'Coffee?' she asks then. 'There's still half a pot in the kitchen. You know where everything is.'

'Thanks. There wasn't a chance at the airport.' He doesn't look to see if that lands. He cuts through the living room to the kitchen, the same path he'd used for eleven years. The same floorboard squeaks, as it always did. He removes a mug from the hooks on the wall and fills it from the press on the stove. There's a dish in the sink, rinsed already. The cream is still out. He adds a splash to his coffee, and returns the crock to the refrigerator. He leaves the kitchen, and walks slowly back through the house, passing the slumped old easy chairs with their limp crocheted pillows, the battered old hutch with its sleek spines of books, the big table of reclaimed slate between the two sofas. On the side table, arranged like a museum piece, his collection of seashells. The only thing he'd ever taken from Sanq. He lets himself touch them, but he doesn't let himself think about them. There's only room for so much thought. He'd rather just feel, right now.

Sally joins him a minute later, when he's chosen a stance by the terrace arch, gazing out at the garden behind the house. She's dressed now, and he dimly appreciates her sense of fair play. This is still a game, and they're still playing, both of them, but with a light touch, for the moment. The robe, the house, the memories, it's all just set-pieces. The real moves are still coming.

Sally fingers her damp hair back, and nods out the window. 'I haven't been on top of the garden this winter. I think I might lose the azaleas.'

'I'm not a Newtype, Sally.'

She looks at him. He doesn't look at her. He sips his coffee. She's right. The bushes don't look good. The begonias, too.

'Dawes and Walker were understandably concerned with your behaviour.' Sally hugs her arms over her chest, leans on the archway. 'I don't think you tried all that hard to dissuade them.'

'I'm not a Newtype, but I'm something.' Now he faces her. 'My father was. My mother was. That makes me something. Even if all it makes me is someone who can't be a spectator while we blunder around ruining their lives.'

'Or maybe it makes you...' Sally inhales deeply. 'Dawes says that Khosa only agreed to come after he talked to you. Quatre only agreed to work with us after you persuaded him. You're a smart boy, Toru, but you're not a genius. Maybe you've just got something in you that makes Newtypes... cooperative.'

'I think it's called empathy.' He sets his coffee on the lamp stand behind him. 'And once upon a time you had it, too. Or I'd be in foster care and we wouldn't be anything to each other.'

'I should have transferred you out.' Her voice is dry and flat, contained. Her arms are tight over her chest. 'Maybe another commander would know what to do with you right now. I don't.'

He lets that sink in for a moment, past the skin to where it might start to hurt. But it doesn't. 'I know,' he says. 'I'm sorry. I don't think I know, either. Except that I'm sorry for it. I don't know when it stopped being easy.'

'You were never easy, Toru.' She drops her eyes. 'You were alone. Always so alone. I didn't know what to do about it, and I never had the time anyway. Maybe if I'd tried harder...'

'You see this as a bad thing, right now,' he says. 'For me, this is the first time I've had clarity in a long time. I wish I could share it. Or at least convince you I mean it.'

She touches his cheek. He turns his cheek into her palm, for the second that she lingers there. But it's only a second. She's still his commander, and she has to make a decision.

'You remember how to make eggs florentine?'

'Sure.' He nods. 'You want it with bacon?'

'I have some prosciutto in there.' Sally straightens. 'I have to make some calls. Let me know when it's ready? There's orange juice. You can finish the coffee.'

Okay. So that's the final move, and all he can do is wait it out.

He's back in the kitchen making breakfast, actions so familiar he doesn't have to think about them. Brown eggs and spinach from the cupboard. The cream back out of the refrigerator, and the prosciutto, wrapped in parchment paper. He heats the oven, and fills a pot in the sink to boil for the eggs, minces an onion to saute in butter. He digs a wooden stirrer out from the drawer, and the slotted spoon, and by the time he's toasting crumpets under the broiler and shaving pecorino romano he realises he's made his own decision, without even having to think about it.

He sets the dining table for two, the bright blue mats and napkins, the flatware to either side of the plates. He pours a small glass of juice for each of them, and sits. 'Sally?' he calls. 'Don't let it get cold.'

'Just a moment.' He hears her on the other side of the living room, when he listens for it. She's speaking quietly on the phone, just audible through the closed door of her office. He uses the time to crumble the baked prosciutto, sprinkling it over their eggs. He licks his fingers.

'I'm here.' Sally takes the seat across from him. 'Smells fantastic. You haven't lost your touch.' She picks up her fork, and breaks into the egg, oozing yolk over the spinach. 'Have you cooked for Walker yet?'

He blushes. It's pure body reaction to being surprised by the question. 'I, uh, no. I mean, I-- wouldn't have, uh, any, um, reason. To do. That.'

'You've only been staring at her since you joined the Corps. I just wondered if you ever made a move.' Sally takes a bite, and props her chin on her hand. 'You obviously don't care too much about our rules.'

So not a total change of subject. Toru picks up his own fork and knife, and slices his egg in quarters. 'I care. When the rules are there for real reasons, and not just to stand in the way of getting things accomplished.' He scoops up egg and spinach in a slop of hollandaise, and adds, 'Or when they're only there to let us get things accomplished, no matter who we have to run over.'

'About that.' Sally pushes a sliver of crumpet across her plate slowly. 'This is what we're going to do. You're going to assure me that you're fully committed to Preventers, and whatever you say, I'm going to take you at your word. Because I can't formally discipline you without having to say why, and I'm not willing to do that. Yet. But right now, here in our kitchen, you're going to listen to me. This is the last time we have this conversation. I don't know what you are or even if you are anything other than that little boy I watched grow up in this house. But I know it stopped mattering the minute you took the oath of service. You have to be a Preventer first, Toru. Tell me you understand that.'

He takes a breath. 'Yes,' he says. 'I understand that. And I still want that. I hope you believe me.'

He doesn't know. She doesn't say. But they finish their eggs together, and she helps him with the dishes, and while he's scrubbing a soapy pan she reaches for his hand and squeezes it tight.

 

**

 

He takes a cab to Headquarters.

The desk guard waves him near as he passes through the lobby. 'Agent Craft?' she asks. 'There's a package for you.'

'Package?' Oh. His bag. He wonders what would have happened to it if Sally hadn't decided in his favour. He signs for it, and removes his phone from the inside pocket to turn it on. Seven messages in the time he'd been on the flight and at Sally's house, and dozens of work email. A text from Micheko.

_Suite 2100. Hope u can join us when u get in._

Toru rolls his head on his shoulders, shakes himself out. Right.

He stops in the men's to freshen up, washing his face and then just standing there staring at his reflection. He tightens his tie knot, tugs his shirt cuffs under his jacket's sleeves, and hopes that's good enough to hide the red eyes.

He walks down the marble hall to 2100. There's a few people in cubicles in the suite, but the conference room's 'Occupied' sign is on. Toru swipes his badge beside the door, and it unlocks for him. He lets himself in.

Voices die as he enters. Heads turn. 'Hey,' Micheko says, sounding relieved, but there's something uneasy in her face. Dawes has no expression at all, but nods when Toru's eyes fall on him. Barton is at the far end of the table, long legs stretched out on another chair. Whatever he's thinking, he keeps it to himself.

'Hi,' Toru says, and walks around the conference table to seat himself next to Khosa. At least there's one person unequivocally glad to see him. Khosa's tension level drops a dozen or so ergs. There's a faint sheen of perspiration on his temples and upper lip. 'Jumping right in?' Toru asks, and reaches to the pile of half-burnt, half-drowned books on the table. Khosa's secrets. He pries a disc from its melted sleeve.

'We were just discussing what might have inspired a burn run,' Dawes murmurs. 'We hadn't got all that far.'

'It's not really the right question, though, is it.' Toru sets the disc aside and wipes ash off his fingers. 'We know why you burned it, or tried to. It didn't get you very far. The question to ask is what's in all of this that's so important you tried to do it.'

Khosa shifts uncomfortably. Barton, over in his corner, snorts into his coffee. 'You got caught,' he tells Khosa, swinging his legs down. 'And their techs will recover the data. Might as well tell them.'

Khosa rubs a sleeve over his mouth. 'It's everything I ever had on White Fang,' he admits softly. 'White Fang and many of its leaders.'

That may or may not include Milliardo Peacecraft. Toru hesitates with one finger on a print-out with water-slurred ink. 'You stole intelligence?'

'It was my insurance policy.' Khosa slumps back in his chair. 'When they started trying to create Newtypes, it seemed wise to ensure they'd never have a reason to try to burn their own experiments.'

'Not a dumb idea.' Barton taps his fingers slowly on the table. 'I've always wondered how many they went through in the Resistance. Quat thinks it's all heart and light and camaraderie.'

'Maybe. They never moved on us. But maybe that was only because we were chased out of existence before it could come to that.'

'Us,' Micheko notes. 'More than one Newtype, in White Fang?'

Khosa looks to Toru for rescue. Toru gives it. 'Ivan Rzhevsky probably took care of it for us,' he says. 'We can check his list later. Ishaq, can we focus on the question of Newtype abilities? We have a dearth of expertise and we still haven't solved our main dilemma. Quatre Winner. We need to find him, and we need more to go on than somewhere in India, someday.'

'I've done what I can do,' Khosa protests.

'I believe that,' Toru soothes him. 'But I think we can go wide. I've been giving it some thought. You said you'd consider talking to Ivan Rzhevsky?'

'I—' Khosa swallows. 'That's not exactly what I meant, Agent.'

'I know.' Dawes and Micheko are watching curiously. Barton's figuring it out, and he doesn't really approve, but Toru doesn't really care. 'Rzhevsky knows how to find Newtypes. We know he knows because he told Quatre. Well, not told-told, but Quatre learnt it from him either way. You know how to--' He looks at his fellow agents, and deliberately leaves that hanging. Micheko's mouth goes tight. Dawes clicks his pen and writes something down. 'Unless there's something I don't know, there's nothing actually stopping you from working with Rzhevsky. Combining your abilities to find Quatre together.'

Barton stares at him. 'Now I know what Quat sees in you,' he says. 'Your ideas are even crazier than his.'

'Combine our abilities?' Khosa is already shaking his head. 'I don't think it's possible.'

'But do you know?' Toru points out reasonably. 'Have you ever tried?' He doesn't have to wait for Khosa to hesitate and admit he hasn't. He just moves on. 'I'm not promising it will be pleasant. But I think it's possible. I think if it's possible, then it's also possible it would work.'

'Rzhevsky would have to agree,' Dawes says, and that's unfortunately very reasonable a point to make, too. 'He doesn't want to help Preventers. Helping us find Winner would be a double-no, I'd think.'

'That presumes we don't have anything to offer in trade.' Toru flattens his hands on the table. His skin is dry, from too much soap at Sally's. He spreads his fingers wide, then makes fists. 'Heero Yuy.'

There's dead silence after he says it. Khosa looks a little appalled. Barton's disgusted, but maybe he agrees. Barton gets up from the table and goes to stand by the window, the farthest physical distance he can put between himself and Toru. Toru's idea. Micheko seems troubled, ducking her head so that her hair falls in her face.

'Yuy,' Dawes echoes thoughtfully. 'The one that got away.'

'The big fish.' Toru shrugs with a casualness that he doesn't really feel. He's not sure what he feels, just now. If he's feeling anything at all. He didn't know he had it in him to be quite this ruthless, but he does, apparently. Winner's pretty words about following him someday would vanish if he'd heard that one. Sally might trust him again if she'd heard it, at least.

'Quatre's gone after Yuy,' Toru says. 'In looking for Quatre, Rzhevsky will also be finding Yuy. Rzhevsky won't be able to resist the chance to find Heero Yuy, the biggest, baddest Newtype left on the planet. But he'll be doing it from prison. We get the intell, Rzhevsky gets the satisfaction, and no-one's in any physical danger.'

'If it works,' Barton mutters at the window.

'Yes. If it works.' Toru folds his hands into his elbows. 'That's my idea. If anyone has anything else, I'm open to hearing it.'

'What if Mr Winner didn't go after Heero Yuy?' Micheko interrupts. 'What if India is about something else entirely?'

'What?' Toru asks simply. 'It's too direct not to be the answer. Zero never complicated the issue. There were no complex strategies, no feints, no fake-outs. Zero attacked at the weakest point and Zero won.'

'Zero?'

Barton's turned. His face is hard, but it's his eyes that give him away, dark with unhappy memory. Softly he says, 'When an enemy is too strong to attack directly, then attack something he holds dear. Know that in all things he cannot be superior. Somewhere there is a gap in the armour, a weakness that can be attacked instead.'

Khosa sighs, barely more than a breath leaving him, his eyes falling closed. ' _The Thirty-Six Stratagems,_ ' he murmurs.

'Zero only needed one,' Barton says.

'But wait, I don't understand what you're talking about,' Micheko interrupts. 'Who's Zero?'

'Not a who,' Dawes answers, hollow and low.

Barton focusses on Toru, excluding the others. 'You don't know enough about this to be sure.'

'No. I know Quatre enough, I think. Heero Yuy is a weakness. For Quatre. He'll try to find his friend before we can. But also because it's the easiest way to stop us from getting something useful out of the entire Newtype business. Who else would be a symbol for us the way Heero Yuy would be? A Newtype we could trust. Follow. Quatre might have been, but he knows us too much, and we know too much about him. Heero Yuy... Heero Yuy's just a name. A myth. Even if we never found him, the myth would justify everything we could ever do to create our own Newtypes, if it meant we could make more Heero Yuys. If Quatre finds us a real man, he can undermine us in one blow. That's the real weakness. That we'd meet him, see him, really see him. He'd be just a man. Not a Newtype god. Almost a Normal.'

'What if you're wrong?'

'Maybe I am,' Toru admits. 'But you're missing the point. We are going to keep looking for Quatre. We are going to keep looking for Heero Yuy. The only factor we can influence from this room is the time it takes. If we do it fast, we'll get it done before someone up the chain, someone in the President's office decides it's worth the risks to start experimenting with Newtype creation. Maybe we get Quatre back and maybe he has Heero with him or maybe he doesn't, and maybe from there we get more Newtypes or we don't or a thousand other things happen, but it starts with time. If we do it slow, someone with the power to make a decision will make it. They'll make a decision without ever knowing what Quatre went out there to show them.'

'Toru.' Micheko chews her lip, but when he meets her eyes, she doesn't back down. 'I don't think you really know which _we_ you belong to, right now.'

'All of them,' Toru tells her. 'And I don't see that as a conflict. It will be, one day, but right now, at this junction, it's not.'

No-one speaks then. No-one's looking at anyone else. Toru picks up a book out of the burnt pile of things on the table, Khosa's things. He wipes a smudge of ash from the spine to read it. When he opens it, the pages crumble into dust. He flattens it carefully. There's writing in the margins, or at least what's left of them. Circles around individual letters in the paragraphs. It's a codebook. _Shakespeare's Sonnets_ , passing messages through the centuries. He turns back to the front flap, to check for a name. Dorothy Catalonia. Another exile he'll never know. Another piece of the past that mattered desperately to people who lived it. But it's just a book. The codes are old, and the war they were fighting is over.

'Mr Khosa,' Dawes says finally. 'Do you think it's possible, what Craft is suggesting? Working with another Newtype.'

'You agree with this?' Micheko asks.

'I agree that we've got to make a decision one way or another,' Dawes shrugs. 'The brass says find Winner. This sounds like the best and fastest way to do that. It's not my job to worry about the whys.'

'Ishaq?' Toru asks. 'Will you talk to Rzhevsky? Just to find out?'

'I don't really have a choice, do I,' Khosa mumbles.

'Sure you do,' Barton says behind him. 'Let them drag you around India for a decade.'

'Thank you,' Toru tells Khosa. 'Walker, would you make the calls to the London office? Dawes, Commander Po will have to sign off on it. Frankly, it will sound better coming from you, and you are senior agent on the case.'

'You don't have to lead me to it by the nose, Craft.' Dawes stands. 'All I'll ask is if I'm going to get yelled at, making this call?'

'No.' Toru closes the book. 'No, you won't.'

'Right.' Dawes inclines his head, first to Toru and then including Khosa as well. 'Let's get to it.'

Barton returns to the table only after the other agents have gone. He pauses there, standing sideways to it. He says, 'You don't know what you're getting into, do you.'

'None of us do, I would think.' Toru mimics Dawes' shrug, and it's not any more casual this time around. 'This is new territory for all of us.'

'Say it works. Finding him. And-- Heero.' Barton drags a finger slowly up the table. 'And Preventers does get its symbol. Even when he was down, Heero was...'

'All I know for sure is that I don't know what happens beyond tomorrow,' Toru says. 'I can hope. But I still have to make a move.'

Barton nods as if he'd expected that. But then he says, 'Remember that when my turn comes.'

Toru finds he can still smile. 'Yeah,' he says. 'I'll remember.'

Barton goes, then, too. The door snags shut behind him. Where he'll go, without an escort, Toru doesn't know. Maybe just down the hall to a break room or the men's. He won't get far before someone gets suspicious about him. But Toru lets him go anyway. He's a little surprised that Barton didn't try to bring Khosa out with him. Or maybe he's not. Barton's only here for Winner. He may feel badly for Khosa, but he won't be sidetracked. Khosa is Toru's problem. Victim.

'We can put this away,' Toru says, and rises to find the empty duffel for Khosa's things. 'I don't think we're going to get to it any time soon.'

'But I can't have it back, can I.'

'Do you really want it?' Toru points out. 'It didn't help you, in the end. If you hadn't been trying to get rid of it, we might have left you alone.'

'No,' Khosa says. 'You wouldn't have. You're lying to yourself if you believe that.'

Toru slowly packs the duffel, gathering discs and pages. 'You're right. I'm sorry.'

'The girl was right.' Khosa finally opens the bottle of water in front of him, draining half of it in deep swallows. 'You can't be all things to all people. You'll have to choose. It will be sooner than you think.'

'You of all people would know, I guess.' One of the discs turns out not to be a disc. It's a medal of some kind, embossed with stylised swirls. Toru traces the whorls with his thumb. That's an O. The other is... it's a zed. Oz. 'This was his. Where did you-- you found it? When you were stealing the rest of this?'

Khosa looks up. 'Have you ever been to the Libra wreckage?' he asks. He twists the cap back on the water, twists it off again. 'In 196, before the Provisional Government ceded power to the Parliament, they didn't guard it very well. Preventers didn't really have any authority yet, there was no standing army. It was easy to get past the perimetre. There was a good black market trade in salvaged mobile doll parts, and the Sweepers established smuggling routes in and out. I bribed someone... I only had an hour on the Command bridge. I took everything I could carry. Most anything valuable had been stripped already, but not the data. And that. I found that... I found that as I was going. In a bag in the corridor. It had snagged. I think someone else was trying to get out with it. It had a coat, shirts, a good pair of boots, a notebook.'

'A notebook?'

'I don't have that anymore,' Khosa apologises, and Toru finds himself in the odd position of being pitied. He licks his lips, shoves his shoulders back. 'I didn't even think about it til years later, when I heard he'd been exiled.'

'Can you, um.' God, he is pitiable. There's work he could be doing, should be doing. But he stands there, keeps standing there, rooted to the floor because suddenly years of denying this need inside him are just-- maybe it was seeing Sally, being in the only place he really remembers being a home, a place he's never going to go back to because Khosa is right, eventually there's going to be a reckoning, and he may end out an ex-agent, too, ten days from now or ten years when Sally finally gives up trusting him just because she used to clean his scraped knees.

He holds out the medallion. 'Can you tell me about him, if you touch this?'

Khosa rubs his mouth, chagrined. He shakes his head. Toru nods, his throat tight. But when he goes to tuck the medal away in the duffel, Khosa puts out his hand.

His fingers are numb. He only knows he's holding the medal tight enough to hurt when a weird tingle breaks through on his palm, a rough edge digging in. 'I...' He hesitates, airless. 'I haven't heard from them since I was a child.'

'I don't have to try if you don't want me to.'

'No. I mean-- I mean, I don't know. Yes.' He hands over the medal before he can think twice. Again. 'I-- yes.'

Their fingers brush. Khosa pulls back quickly, the medal cradled between both hands. His eyes dip closed, and stay that way, and his breathing falls almost as still as Toru's. Toru's throat is so tight he couldn't breathe if he wanted to. He couldn't meditate if he tried-- he doesn't even think to look for the glow until just the moment before Khosa's eyes open again, and he stupidly thinks there's an answer in them, for just a wild moment, before he registers it instead as--

'Forgive me,' Khosa murmurs rustily. He sets the medal back on the table, laying it gently into place. 'Maybe he's too far away. I don't see anything.'

There's a lurch somewhere inside him. Disappointment. Relief. He's not sure. 'Okay,' he says.

'Maybe it wasn't really his.'

'But you'd see who it really belonged to.' He scratches the back of his neck. Pulls out his ponytail and wraps the elastic around his wrist. 'Um. Okay. Thanks, for trying. Sorry for asking that. I shouldn't have.'

'I would have asked, if I were you.'

That's nicer than he deserves. He feels sort of faint, or sort of nauseated, maybe. 'I'll see if I can find you a tea,' Toru says, and scoops up the medal, dumps it into the duffel, and leaves.


	16. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rzhevsky sneers openly at that. 'Your replacement Newtype is half the man Winner is, and Winner is half the man you need to build your own empire of Newtype talent. He could be out there searching for God and he'd have more success. Heero Yuy might as well not exist. Do you think I didn't look, Agent? Do you think I didn't place a high priority on that name, above all others?'_

London in spring is about as cold as London in winter, but there's sun now. Sort of.

Toru only goes to his hotel room long enough to drop off his bag. He doesn't stay to sleep. He goes to the lobby, sits on the couch in front of the television, watches the news. Doesn't listen, just lets the colour and movement roll over him.

'Hi.'

He starts. 'Hi. Um.' He takes the coffee dangling in front of his face. 'Are you sure you actually want to talk to me? Or be seen talking to me?'

'It's four in the morning here.' Micheko takes the cushion next to him, seating herself with her own coffee held close under her nose. She tucks her stockinged feet under her and spreads her robe over them. 'We're safe enough.'

'Sure about that, huh.' Toru sips. 'That's why you're packing?'

'I can shoot you if you want, but the gun isn't about you.' She adjusts the holster so that it's better hidden under her night clothes. 'Are you angry with me?'

'I thought you were angry with me.'

'I haven't decided.' Micheko props her arm on the couch back and rests her chin on it. 'I feel like I should be, but I guess you haven't done anything actually wrong. Your conscience must be one fierce beast, though.'

'I don't-- I don't know what that means.' There's some kind of quiz show playing now. He wants to change the channel, but the clerk behind the desk has disappeared somewhere. 'If you mean that I'm trying to figure out what's right and do that, I guess.'

'You got Barton to actually like you, so it must count for something.'

'He doesn't like me. I have a part of Quatre that he doesn't.' Toru pries the lid off his coffee and takes a large swallow. 'The minute we find Quatre he's going to try to make a run with him.'

'What?' Micheko sits up for that. 'You think so?'

'He as much as said it. And why shouldn't he?'

'The boyfriend, for one.'

'Not to stay with, then. But to get him out of our reach, he'd do it. Hide Quatre away where Preventers won't ever be able to put him at risk again.' Toru scrapes at an errant grain of coffee that escaped the filter, wiping it down the side of his paper cup. 'Like St John's. I wonder whose decision that really was.'

'It can't be easy, being in love with someone who fundamentally scares you.'

There's something in her voice. Toru very carefully does not look up. 'I think love is about accepting everything about the other person.'

'I think emotions are more complex than principles.' Micheko sighs. 'Toru... maybe you're just braver than me. I don't know. It's different. Different can be frightening. It's not that I'm not trying. I'm trying for you.'

His ears feel hot. He rubs at his neck. 'I'm glad,' he says finally. 'I wasn't sure that was still how things stood with us.'

'I don't think that's entirely my fault,' she points out. She finishes her coffee and sets it on a side table. She stands. 'Well?'

Toru glances up to find her waiting, her hand outstretched. 'Well-- what?'

'Are you coming?'

Right. Well, his gut goes hot and flippy. 'Now?' he squeaks. He clears his throat hurriedly. 'It's nearly sunrise.'

'The others won't be down until six at least. You weren't really planning on sleeping, were you?'

Her room is just a pair of double beds with ugly duvets in swirls of green and blue. Only one of them is turned down. Micheko sheds her robe, and Toru cracks a grin. 'You weren't planning on seducing me,' he guesses.

'What, you don't like pyjamas?' Micheko models her grey biking shorts and sexless jersey, her knee-high plaid stockings. 'Better than you. Don't you ever take off the suit?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.' But he is, dropping his jacket, unbuttoning his cuffs, loosening his belt. 'Are you really sure about this? Us?'

Micheko pulls her shirt off and tosses it to the floor. She reclines back on the bed, fluffing out her hair. 'This, yes,' she answers thoughtfully. 'Us, maybe less. It's a bigger question and needs a bigger answer. Is that okay?'

She's so beautiful there against the pillows in this crappy hotel that he almost throws caution to the wind, and gladly. But she was honest enough to say it, so he takes it as it's intended. With all due reservation.

'It's okay,' he says. 'For now. But we'll talk. That's a promise.'

Micheko nods. She crooks a finger at him. 'If you don't want to rush the important part, get a move-on,' she instructs him, and Toru grins and obeys.

 

**

 

It's odd to be walking into London HQ without Winner. Toru takes a sideways glance at Khosa, whose grey-shadowed eyes look every bit as haunted, and silently amends that thought. It's not as weird as it could be.

Check-in goes smoothly and they're escorted to the same waiting area as before. Micheko goes to fetch tea for everyone, flashing a kindly smile at Khosa, who doesn't seem to be reacting well at finding himself back in territory that is surely familiar from his days as an agent. Dawes finds himself a corner to talk quietly on his mobile phone. Barton leans on a wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression as cool and uninviting as ever.

Which leaves Toru to go to the window. He enters the four-digit command into the keypad, and the opaque white tint fades, revealing the empty room on the other side. In just a moment, Ivan Rzhevsky will be led inside.

He turns and faces Khosa. 'Are you ready?' he asks.

'Not really,' Khosa says, with something that's not quite a laugh, not quite a panic. He joins Toru at the window. His hands are fists, tucking into his elbows. 'What is he like?'

Toru hesitates on that one. 'Cold,' he decides. 'He's not a good man. He'll look for your weaknesses and try to prey on them. He believes that what he did was righteous.'

'Destroying so many people.'

'I think he believes that making them Newtypes destroyed them long before he got to them. Although, if his story is true, he had a large hand in making a lot of them Newtypes.'

'What was it like when Quatre spoke to him?'

'It won't be like that now. It can't be. Quatre could read his mind. It-- it upped the competition. It was always a battle between them. Except maybe for the very end. When Quatre convinced Rzhevsky that he was going out there to stop Preventers from creating Newtypes.'

Khosa looks at him. 'Quatre believes that. Rzhevsky believes that.'

'Do you?'

Khosa looks away. 'What I believe is that it's foolish to think it hasn't already been tried.'

Toru chews his lower lip, and sighs. 'Well, if it's been tried, they must not have succeeded, or we wouldn't be here now working this hard to figure out Ivan Rzhevsky. So we can take heart on that account.'

In the next room, the door is opening. Khosa straightens. With the time now to watch for it, Toru examines it closely, comparing it to the other times he's seen it in Winner. The Flash. Khosa's head falls back, his eyes wide for a moment as if he's almost whoozy, but he recovers himself quickly, propping a hand on the window frame. Inside the next room, a uniformed Preventer is leading Rzhevsky in, and sitting him at the table. He comes equipped with an oxygen tank now, trailing a thin plastic tube to his nostrils. It's been a week, just a week, since they were here with Winner to interview him, but in just that time Rzhevsky has lost another stone in weight, lost hair. He's frail. But he's staring straight at the window. He knows there's a Newtype there. Does he think it's Winner? Toru can't read his expression, and wishes for once that he did know what Rzhevsky is thinking. Hope? Disappointment? Or maybe that's just hunger. One last connection, one last moment with someone like himself, before the end.

Micheko returns then with their tray of tea mugs. 'What's our game plan?' she asks, handing over cups to Toru and Khosa. Dawes joins them; Barton doesn't, and ventures no nearer, so Micheko carries his mug to him. Barton grunts a sour thanks.

Toru shrugs. 'I'm not sure we need a plan. Or that a plan would do us any good. Rzhevsky doesn't trust us and we can't say anything that would make him trust us. He won't trust a Newtype who's been a Preventer and who's working with us now. We dance until we find the right way of enticing him to go against his better instincts. And then we figure out how to combine two different Newtype abilities.'

Dawes scratches his nose, and shrugs himself. 'Your show, Craft.'

'Swim or drown.' He's not as blasé as he's pretending, but maybe only Barton, who misses nothing with those sharp eyes, notices. Toru avoids directly meeting his gaze. 'Ishaq, take as long as you need. We have time.'

It's only then that he sees the soldier Khosa must have been, once, in the days of his father's White Fang. A man who straightens his shoulders in the face of oncoming battle, accepts the inevitable, and marches in anyway.

'Right,' Khosa says. 'You're coming?'

Toru returns his untouched tea to the tray. Dawes hurries to finish his, but the others mimic him. 'Right behind you,' Toru replies.

The interview room isn't very big, and it's full with all of them in there. Rzhevsky watches them file in and take their seats. Dawes he knows from all those long hours of interviews; Rzhevsky dismisses him with a sneering glance. Toru and Micheko don't warrant even that much, and Barton never gets anything at all. That in itself is interesting, Toru supposes. In a crowd with two strangers, Rzhevsky can pick out the Newtype. He focusses in on Khosa, who breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly.

Barton nudges Toru under the table. Toru rubs the side of his nose. The glow is there. Fainter than he's ever seen it. But it's there. If he's right, that means this has a chance of working.

He takes the opening dialogue. 'Quatre Winner left town rather abruptly after he spoke to you last,' he says. 'I take it he did learn the secret of locating other Newtypes.'

A nasty sort of smile curls Rzhevsky's lips up. 'Outwitted again,' he rasps. 'Poor Preventers.'

Toru sits back with a shrug. 'Newtypes are replaceable. It didn't take us long to find another one. You know Ishaq Khosa, I believe.'

The name is obviously familiar. Rzhevsky's chin comes up, his teeth baring for just a moment before he controls himself. 'I meant to go back for you one day,' he admits. His skeletal hand lifts to adjust the lay of his oxygen tubing. 'I didn't want to tip Preventers to the pursuit by taking out one of their own. Too risky.'

Khosa may not be reading the evil in Rzhevsky's mind, but he seems to have a good enough idea of it just sitting across from it. 'So you did do what they say you did,' Khosa murmurs. 'I hadn't been sure, til just now.'

'Because they lie to you? Because they scheme in pursuit of their own agenda?' Rzhevsky nods. 'They are no different than anyone else, my brother. They want what we have.'

'Maybe.' Khosa turns to Toru, looks at him long enough, dares Rzhevsky to pick up on that exchange. Rzhevsky's head never follows, but his eyes dart, for just a second. 'Maybe it's not bought and sold yet.'

'Yet,' Rzhevsky echoes. 'I think you're not so confident in that. _Ishaq_.'

Khosa pulls his lower lip between his teeth. It emerges bitten and white. 'So what do you suggest? Die fighting them, as I would have died fighting you? I want to live. Surely even someone like you can understand that.'

'What you want doesn't matter. Not to them. Not to me.'

Toru hesitates, unsure if he should interrupt, unsure if this is actually helpful. It's the same thing Winner and Rzhevsky went through, that first time, sussing each other out, learning each other's vulnerabilities. Except that Khosa doesn't have Winner's ideas about strategy, his canny way of making Rzhevsky come to him, that power that Rzhevsky wanted to have near him, understand him, even at the cost of Preventers witnessing it. Khosa's too honest, too-- normal, maybe. I want to live.

Because Rzhevsky doesn't. That's the bottom line, isn't it. Rzhevsky doesn't want to live, maybe never has, not with this thing inside him that he hates so much. He even gave up his life's work, his life's vendetta, because the cancer was a way out. He's sitting at this table literally dying and he's glad for it, so Khosa's never going to reach him. They need something else.

'So we know why you didn't get Ishaq,' Toru says. He makes a note, a random scribble on his reader that the pad erases as soon as he's done it, but Rzhevsky's eyes catch the show. 'I don't think I'm as satisfied with the reason you never got Quatre. Quatre didn't have the protection of Preventers watching over a former agent. If he'd died quietly, disappeared, we would have thought it was all part of his Newtype problem.'

'His trail was cold,' Rzhevsky says flatly.

'Hardly. I found him easily enough when I went looking. He's still living under his own name. He's still in contact with his lover.' Barton has the discipline not to stir at that, but his face is harder than ever when Toru glances pointedly at him. 'You had your list of Newtypes. I just find it odd that you never found him, all those years. I wonder if you were going after the breeders first?'

Dawes looks keenly at him. Micheko guesses faster, her lips pursed. Barton doesn't so much as blink. Neither does Rzhevsky.

'The breeders,' Khosa repeats slowly. 'You mean-- the Newtypes who could have children?'

'Quatre's gay,' Toru says. 'That lowers the threat level. And explains why you went after the young ones in the end. The Newtypes with the most time to pass it on to another generation.'

Rzhevsky only shrugs. 'So what will you do, Agent? Find those I missed and lock them in a room until they fall on each other, wild with lust? Or strap them down and remove their genetic material in the colonial fashion? That's a long-term investment. Developing natural-born Newtypes is one matter. Creating a slave-race is another. It's the sort of matter that starts wars. And I believe the other side is already out there gathering its forces to fight you for it.'

'Quatre, you mean. Gathering up the last Newtypes, whoever it was you didn't kill.' Toru makes another pointless doodle with his stylus. 'Bet you wish now you hadn't murdered so many of them. It's funny how fast you need a tool once you've thrown all of them away.'

'We can't all see the future.'

'Some can.' Toru pulls up the case file for real, to the data map he'd made from Rzhevsky's kill table. 'You killed a woman who said she could. You didn't ask her to predict anything before you killed her? You didn't ask her if you'd succeed?'

'She was mad,' Rzhevsky says shortly, and coughs weakly, his body shaking with the effort. He wipes his face with a shaking hand. 'Her ravings were worthless.'

'So you did at least ask.' Toru scrolls up and down the page, wondering if it's the right time, knowing it's really not. Thinking maybe they won't ever get a real opening. The others aren't helping, just watching-- they really are just leaving it to him, and he's more afraid than maybe any other time since the first day he brought Winner to London to search for this man, this murderer that he doesn't have what he needs to succeed. He licks his lips, shuts off the screen, turns it on again. 'Quatre's looking for Heero Yuy,' he says. 'He's convinced you didn't kill him.'

No. Damn it. As soon as it's out of his mouth he knows it was wrong. The wrong time, the wrong move. Rzhevsky's sharp eyes are darkly amused. 'He's convinced?' he drawls in his hoarse voice. 'Then he's delusional.'

Micheko leans in. 'You said before you didn't kill him.'

'I said I couldn't be sure. But if you check that file, Agents, you'll find a matching description.'

Dawes is already searching. He turns his own reader to face Toru, who looks reluctantly. It's in the descriptor fields of Rzhevsky's kill database. 'Asian,' Toru reads. 'Age approximately mid-thirties. Name unknown. That could be a million people.'

'But there aren't a million Newtypes, are there.'

There's no way he missed that when he was making the data map. It's right under his thumb on the reader. He knows that unknown quantity, one of dozens who died without names, identifiers. 'What was his ability?' he asks, running the search against his map. Killed in Tallinn. Not that far distant from the old borders of Sanq. Which maybe didn't mean anything.

They couldn't have been wrong about this, could they? Him. He's the one who thought it was about Yuy. Well, Barton, but Toru's the one who ran with that theory, Toru's the one who pushed it with his command, bet their entire manhunt on it. They got Khosa here on the strength of that theory, they're in this room right now because Winner is supposed to be out there somewhere headed toward India searching for Heero Yuy, and the only thing that makes that okay is that Heero Yuy is alive and it will turn out all right for everyone in the end. His fingers are numb in the tips. Toru squeezes them into fists. He hides them under the table while he tries to shake them out.

Khosa speaks into the silence. 'If you know as much as you claim to about Newtypes, you know I can find out if you're lying. I may not be able to read your mind, but all they have to do is bring me something of Heero Yuy's, and I'll know if he's alive.'

Toru swallows drily. God. He's an idiot. He never thought of that. He'd held his father's medal in his hand and thought to ask for that, but never took the idea to its natural conclusion.

Rzhevsky doesn't like that. His cheeks go hollow. 'I take it you haven't volunteered that yet,' he guesses sourly. 'At least you don't give the milk away for free, Ajmal.'

'Ajmal?' Dawes lowers his own stylus from note-taking. 'Is that an Urdu word?'

Whatever it is, it's hit Khosa hard. He's pale beneath the walnut-tan of his skin, and now he carefully avoids the gaze of the Preventers around him. 'You think to frighten me,' he says, though it's clearly worked.

Toru lays a hand on the table between himself and Khosa. 'He thinks he's still got some advantage to press. Because he hasn't taken a hard look around him and realised he is totally without allies, totally without hope. Except for Quatre.'

Rzhevsky sneers openly at that. 'Your replacement Newtype is half the man Winner is, and Winner is half the man you need to build your own empire of Newtype talent. He could be out there searching for God and he'd have more success. Heero Yuy might as well not exist. Do you think I didn't look, Agent? Do you think I didn't place a high priority on that name, above all others?'

'Then where is he?' Toru demands. 'If you looked then you know the places he's not at, and you must know that's what Quatre went out there to find.'

'How am I to know what he does? He reads my mind. I don't read his.' Rzkevsky's voice builds to an agitated shout, and dies into another round of hacking cough. The Preventers wait in uneasy silence as he wheezes. 'What do you want from me? No games. I'm tired.'

'To find Quatre Winner,' Micheko tells him promptly. 'You know how to find him.'

'If I knew where to look.'

'So that's how you did it before,' Toru guesses. 'You'd pick a city and search it. The way you started to tell us before? Hypnogogia?'

'If I wanted to tell you,' Rzhevsky finishes icily. 'I don't. You have no means of forcing me. I'm already dying. All I have to do is wait you out.'

'Maybe we can tempt you instead. Quatre's going to find Heero Yuy.' Toru hesitates again, but this time he's reassessing, not panicking. Maybe it was a half-baked theory, but it's still workable, to a point. 'Quatre's going to at least try,' he says. 'And he's got a talent you don't. He'll know for sure it's Heero. He may even be able to read him at a distance. Do you think he could do that? Combine his talent with what he's learnt from you? Project his mind over a whole city, maybe even over whole countries, and not just pick out Newtypes by their Flash, but pick out individual Newtypes. Read them, know them. Single them out and only approach the single one he wants.'

Barton drops his elbows to the table. He props his chin on his fist. 'You never met Heero, did you,' he interrupts casually.

Toru stops, not sure what angle Barton's playing, not sure if he should let it run. Rzhevsky, always watching, narrows his eyes. He looks at Barton for the first time, assessing him with sudden interest. 'You're not a Preventer.'

'Pilot Oh-Three,' Barton introduces himself coolly. 'You didn't answer me. You never met Heero. Not just the question of murdering him. You never stood in his presence.'

It's possible, just possible, that the new glint in Rzhevsky's eyes is respect. But even if it is, it doesn't change the dynamic. 'No,' Rzhevsky admits, amused. 'Would I be so very impressed? So very changed?'

'Yes,' Barton says, and there's something about the blunt, unvarnished way he lays it out that makes Toru suddenly very certain that Barton means it. 'So ask yourself if you'd rather we find Quatre now, or after he locates Heero. A smart man bets a losing hand and wins anyway.'

It's a small thing, and it's quickly hidden, but Toru thinks that may have landed harder than anything else they've said. Rzhevsky's pulse jumps in his throat, exposed by the vee of his prison uniform. Rzhevsky inhales, and lets it out slowly, nostrils flaring.

'Even if I wanted to help you,' he says again, 'I have no way of doing so. I don't know where he is. Winner or Yuy. And I don't have the ability to reach thousands of miles unaided.'

'What would you need?' Toru asks immediately.

Rzhevsky bares his teeth for a moment, something roughly opposite a grin in both intent and appearance. 'Child,' he says deliberately, 'don't rush into the breach. Where do I look? Where do I even begin?'

'India,' Khosa supplies. 'He's heading for India.'

'A continent,' Rzhevsky shrugs. 'I need more than that. And I can't do it from here.'

'You mean you'd need to be there?' Toru glances at his fellow agents. Dawes doesn't even have to shake his head. There's no way.

'He means drugs,' Khosa says. 'You can enhance the experiment with drugs.'

Toru rubs his neck. That might be as impossible as getting a travel visa for a man who isn't expected to survive long enough for extradition. He catches Barton's eyes, raising his eyebrows. Barton nods just a little. Confirmation.

'What kind of drugs,' he asks, knowing he's going to regret this. 'Quatre... mentioned cannabis.'

'Not strong enough,' Rzhevsky dismisses immediately. 'No wonder the Rebels only developed a handful of Newtypes. Psychedelics. Mescaline. LSD. Phencyclidine.'

'And being high will fix the problem. You'll be able to envision, or-- mind-travel--'

'The vocabulary is not the problem,' Rzhevsky sighs, slumping back. 'When does he arrive in India? Where does he go before then? It's the same issue.'

'Ishaq, what if we got you more of Quatre's things?' Micheko asks. 'Could you give us more accurate information?'

'I don't know,' Khosa says, but his gaze is on Rzhevsky, and Toru doesn't know if that's true or not. 'Possibly. Maybe with... under certain circumstances.'

With the drugs to enhance it. Wonderful. Toru's not only proposing a Newtype experiment, but he's going to be dealing chemicals in the process. He pulls hard at his pony tail, suddenly glad Winner had never brought this up with him. 'The pool?' he says.

Micheko's eyelashes flutter as she thinks that one over. 'Like in London?'

'It didn't exactly work, but it might be, um, preferable to start there.'

'Pool?' Khosa inquires.

'We've got other methods at our disposal,' Toru decides. 'We'll see what we can do. But I want to be clear what we're agreeing to, Mr Rzhevsky. You understand that we do want results.'

'You understand I guarantee nothing,' Rzhevsky retorts.

'Not good enough,' Toru tells him. 'Your guarantee is that you work with us, attitude and all, until we find our man.'

Rzhevsky tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. It's a long minute, waiting for him. But he does agree, in the end. His head bobs, once.

'Good,' Toru says, and stands, his case reader in hand. 'We'll be back shortly. Rest up.'

 

**

 

'Can we talk for a moment like we aren't dealing with Newtypes?' Micheko protests. 'Just for a moment, I mean, can we pretend like we aren't going to write a script for illegal drugs and hand over a crack pipe to a prisoner and a-- volunteer contractor? What happened to the pool idea?'

'The pool didn't work,' Toru explains again, trying to type and talk at the same time and not really managing either. 'Quatre was clear on that point. And he admitted that the Rebels used drugs in Newtype experiments too. He just didn't get explicit about which ones.'

Their 'volunteer contractor' watches their argument with bemusement. Khosa hasn't contributed much since they left Rzhevsky, and Toru doesn't think that's accidental. Any more than he thinks it's accidental that Rzhevsky dropped that word, Ajmal, in front of the rest of the Preventers in the interview. He hasn't had a chance to look it up yet, but it obviously has bearing on the case. Khosa's been silently chewing on something heavy, anyway.

Barton finally interrupts, apparently tired of the back-and-forth. 'If someone doesn't explain this damn pool code-word I'll break something,' he says flatly.

Toru takes that more for truth than tantrum and swings his chair about to face the man. Barton has propped himself on a desk across from Toru, and his expression is coldly mutinous. 'Sorry,' Toru says, matching his tone exactly, just to be clear he doesn't mean it. 'We're referring to something Quatre tried our first time in London. Before we had much of a lead on Rzhevsky. We had pieced together that Rzhevsky was actually murdering Newtypes-- we didn't know that much even until Quatre figured it out. If he was murdering Newtypes, it reasoned he had a way of finding them in the first place. Quatre tried a sensory-deprivation experience in an attempt to magnify the Flash.'

Barton's chin lifts. He doesn't say anything immediately, either to reject that out of hand or to indicate it's all normal business for Newtypes, either. 'But you said it didn't work,' he notes at last.

'No. At least it didn't work for Quatre.' Toru angles his chair toward Khosa, who's sitting behind a desk without a computer at it, his head bowed away from them. 'Ishaq? Did you ever try anything like that? Quatre said he'd done it before, just not with many hits.'

Khosa blinks up at him. 'Sensory-deprivation? No. It's got reams of negative side effects. Hallucinations. Suggestibility. That's why it's used as an interrogation tactic.'

'As opposed to drugs, which produce stability?' Micheko says exasperatedly.

They're going in circles. Toru rubs his eyes. 'You did use drugs, though, like Rzhevsky said.'

Khosa nods reluctantly. 'To lower inhibitions. Heighten emotion. It's emotion that's important, I think. Sogran thought so, anyway. A lot of chemicals mimic serotonin. Or at least block dopamine.'

'But Rzhevsky said that your abilities work best when you're frightened. Or angry.'

'Drugs can do that too,' Barton says quietly. 'It's not that hard to induce a bad trip.'

Toru rubs his eyes again, digging his thumbs into his eyeballs until they ache. 'So this is or isn't a good idea.'

It's not like anyone's rushing to answer him, but Dawes stops the conversation-- argument-- anyway by returning from his errand. 'We've got permission,' he announces, 'for whatever that's worth. It'll be tomorrow at the earliest though. I assume our London friends aren't going to the nearest corner dealer and buying a couple grams.'

Toru grimaces. 'I hope they're not requisitioning it out of Evidence, either.'

'Probably.' Dawes wheels a chair into their circle and falls backward into it. 'They've a basement here we can use for the bit with the pools. Don't know quite how that's going to work out. I think I got our point across, but we'll see what we get when we get it, I reckon.' Dawes nudges Toru's chair with his foot. 'Talk to you a moment?'

'Sure.' Toru takes a moment to lock his computer and rises. Khosa is gnawing a fingernail. Barton meets his eyes and watches him go. Toru shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably, knowing he's not really imagining that Barton is painting a dart-board on his spine.

Dawes takes him no farther than the corner, putting them visually beyond the others. 'We should tape it,' he tells Toru. 'And they shouldn't know.'

Toru rubs a finger along the inside of his collar. 'I suppose it's something that you told me, then.'

'You're a Preventer,' Dawes says frankly. 'If you need the reminder. We don't know what Command will do with the tape, but I know they'll want one. This is totally without precedent. Maybe in all of history. There's no other record out there of Newtypes doing this kind of thing. We can't lose the chance to record it. And record it in the most natural way possible.'

'And they'll act differently if they know they're being taped.' There is no real way to object to this. Not as a Preventer, Dawes is right about that. Toru swallows, and nods. 'I'll set it up,' he says.

'Good.' Dawes claps him on the shoulder then. Toru nods uneasily. 'This is the right thing,' Dawes tells him, and leaves him alone with it.

It only takes a short call. There's cameras in the basement; it's a Preventers building, so there's security cameras everywhere, and he requisitions a button camera, for himself and for Dawes, to cover the ground-angle. That's all the effort it needs, and it will be done. Right.

When he returns to the others, another decision has been made. 'But could we even get access?' Micheko is asking.

'Access to--' His voice comes out too dry. Toru coughs to clear his throat, resumes his seat. 'Access to what?'

'Wing Zero,' Barton answers shortly, grimly.

Wing Zero. Toru looks at Khosa. 'To see if you can learn anything about Heero Yuy?' he guesses. 'I thought the remains of the Gundam were locked away.'

'By Parliamentary order,' Barton confirms.

'There's a piece of it at the Archives on L1,' Dawes says thoughtfully. 'That might be easier to get to. I read about it a few years back. Don't know which exact piece it'd be, though.'

Toru seeks Khosa's face for confirmation. Khosa can only offer an uncertain shake of his head. 'Gundams were huge,' Toru says. 'Yuy might never have personally touched whatever piece L1 has.'

Micheko pounces on that. 'So it has to be something the person actually touched?' she demands. 'Mr Khosa? For your ability to work on it?'

Toru sits up straight. 'We're getting ahead of ourselves. Tomorrow may make all of this moot. If Rzhevsky can locate Quatre, we don't need to go off on a colonial jaunt. Space is not in the same direction as India.'

'There's three agents on the case.' Micheko digs a pen into the surface of her borrowed desk. 'One could go to L1 to pursue the Gundam and Yuy and two could accompany Mr Barton and Mr Khosa to India.'

'Against protocol,' Dawes says.

Protocol. They'll have Barton, Khosa, and, if they manage it, Quatre Winner. Two agents for three 'volunteer contractors', and two of them Newtypes. And that all assumes that Winner hasn't done the implausible and found Heero Yuy. No. They need every agent they have, and probably they need more, locals they'll pick up once they're on the ground in India.

'Let's get through tomorrow,' Toru says. He stands again. 'Mr Khosa? How do you want to handle this? Full meal or empty stomach going into a morning high?'

 

**

 

'Are you up for this adventure?'

'Shouldn't I be asking you that?' Toru checks the chart hanging from the foot of the bed, but most of the notations mean nothing to him. The wasted man lying in the bed being prepped by a Preventers nurse looks like he didn't sleep a wink last night. Toru didn't, either, but Toru is eighteen and healthy. Ivan Rzhevsky has to get a fresh catheter just to get out of bed.

'Blood pressure is low,' the nurse tells Toru. 'He shouldn't walk.'

'Can we get a chair?' Toru replaces the chart. 'Quatre uses a chair sometimes,' he tells Rzhevsky, striking a casual tone. 'He can't fly. Sail. Take the train. I wonder how he's doing, out there on his own now.'

Rzhevsky gazes at him with watery grey eyes, slitted to narrow contempt. 'Just damn fine,' he rasps.

'Suddenly you like Quatre? You admire him?'

'Admiration and murder aren't mutually exclusive.' Rzhevsky thrusts back his blankets, revealing shrivelled legs. 'He's no saint, you know. He killed. He was a soldier. And he still is. Don't mistake this for anything but a new battle.'

'A battle you started,' Toru says.

'The battle started long before me. It will end long after I'm gone.'

The nurse is back with the chair. Toru takes the handles, and presents it to the bed. 'Get in,' he orders shortly. 'It's time.'

The basement they borrow from their London counterparts is not particularly warm or welcoming. There's also a specially thrown-together feel to the set-up the London agents have put together. Their 'pool's are children's wading plastics. There's bags of Epsom salt ready, as requested. Toru measures out a bucketful for each wading pool, and mixes it with his bare hand, swishing the water around. It's warm at the moment, but it won't be for long, not at temperatures like these.

Micheko kneels beside him. 'Dawes is on his way in. He texted. There was some kind of check-in problem with Khosa.'

He tries very hard not to glance up to the security camera in the corner. 'Khosa?'

'They just didn't set his Visitor ID right yesterday. They'll be down in a minute.' Micheko tests the water with a finger. 'How's he doing?' she asks, much quieter, nodding toward Rzhevsky.

'Not great.' Toru stands and kicks off his shoes, bends to grab his socks off. He rolls up one pantleg, and Micheko, still crouching beside him, gets the other. 'You're planning on going in?' she asks.

'Anticipating.'

'Fair enough.' Micheko slips her own loafers off, and sheds her jacket, too, rolling up her sleeves. 'Quatre went under,' she reminds him. 'I don't really enjoy being wet all day.'

He almost kisses her. He only remembers about Rzhevsky and those cameras when his palm is at her cheek. Her breath is quick against his skin. Toru swallows drily, and lets her go.

'This part will be over soon,' she murmurs. She takes his hand, and he lets her, though he tries to put his back to the camera to hide it, shift the button cam on his jacket, tries to do it without her noticing. 'We'll be on the road again going after Mr Winner, but it'll end someday.'

'And then it will be something else. Some other case.'

'It's the life.'

'You don't ever want anything else?'

Her lips curve up sweetly. 'You don't,' she guesses.

'Touching,' Rzhevsky sneers behind them.

Toru blows out a deep breath. 'It was,' he mutters, and turns about with a quick squeeze to Micheko's hand. 'So how is this going to work, Mr Rzhevsky? What should we expect?'

'Your pet Newtypes never explained?'

'No.' Toru pops the brakes on the wheelchair and pushes Rzhevsky closer to the pools, avoiding the wires of the big heat-lamps that are strung across the concrete. 'Hence my reasonable question.'

Rzhevsky stares dully at the pool. Toru drops into a crouch of his own, the better to study Rzhevsky's face, all planes and shadows against the harsh lights. 'When I was nineteen,' Rzhevsky says finally, trailing off. 'Nineteen. Commander Bonaparte singled me out. How he knew without me to find me for him, I'll always wonder. I was one of the first. The things we did. Everything we saw.'

'Sounds great,' Micheko mumbles sceptically, turning away to answer her phone as it beeps.

'It sounds to me like a lot of what you did was wasted effort.' Rzhevsky snorts out an exhale, and Toru shrugs. 'Well, wasn't it? Your side lost the war. Your side was wiped out pretty thoroughly before the war got half started, really. Treize Khushrenada wiped you out with a handful of Newtypes and an army of Normals. All before the Gundams arrived to finish him off.'

'I see Winner has infected you with his worldview.' Rzhevsky waves him off impatiently. 'He may not control your thoughts, but you replicate his.'

'His worldview makes sense. His worldview doesn't involve the slow genocide of an entire population.'

'Ah, but it does.' Rzhevsky looks him in the eye for maybe the first time, really looks at him. 'He might prefer natural causes, but ask yourself this. If he really wanted to save Newtypes from their fate, a man with his resources and his money and his name could have done it. Could have raised political capital, could have used his talent decades ago to begin looking for them. To protect them. He left them alone to die mad on the streets of the planet and its colonies instead. It was a choice.'

Toru bites the inside of his cheek, inhales. But is ultimately spared having to answer that. Barton's arrived.

'Morning,' Toru says, rising from his crouch and stepping carefully away from Rzhevsky. 'You got it?'

'Everything Ewin could gather in a hurry.' Barton has an over-night package in his hands, the seal already ripped open. He uses the aluminium table in the corner to spread out the contents. 'I don't keep much.'

'If it's not enough, we're no worse off than when we started.' Micheko joins him in sifting through Barton's treasures, though they're both wary of touching. Khosa's visual with the letter Winner had written to Barton hadn't had a lot of detail. Barton had been the one to think of this: if they were going to use the pools and the enhancers, why not increase the chances with something Winner had owned for longer, something more important to him? Something that left the impression of a long life lived and the intimacies of the future awaiting.

There's an old mobile phone, a big one decades out of date. It's practically a museum piece compared to the technology most people carry in their pockets today-- no net access, definitely, and the aerial alone makes Micheko smile. A battered plastic clip of pictures. Toru can only see the top one, but it looks like two teenaged boys in a pub somewhere. Barton and Winner. Younger than Toru is now. A book called _Clippings_ , for pressed flowers, which seems an odd choice until Toru realises it's older than either man; it's the kind of relic a man carries to remind him of a parent or grandparent. The pasteboard cover is worn at the edges, the leather binding is splitting, and the edge of a purple flower peeks out from between the pages.

'His mother,' Barton says shortly. 'He never knew her.'

'The book might tell Ishaq more about his mother, then, than him.' Only a few small items left, all bagged together. Toru does undo the bag, but he's gentle pouring them out to the table, not to brush them with his fingers. An old-fashioned iron-wrought key with a wooden tag. A carved jade elephant, barely big enough to fit in the palm of his hand. A pair of cuff bracelets, gold and silver bands woven together.

Toru scratches the back of his neck. He says, 'You know he loves you.'

Barton straightens as if stung. 'You don't know half of what you think you do, kid.'

'I can guess pretty well, though.' He nudges the air beside those bracelets. Gifts that lovers give each other, promises made that are supposed to be kept a lifetime. Until they can't be. 'I just thought it was worth saying.'

He mostly expects it when Barton simply stalks away. He pockets the empty plastic bag, and turns his back on the evidence of a half-life that ended a long time ago.

Dawes and Khosa are almost another hour getting to them. 'Side-trip,' Dawes advises, as they finally enter. 'We stopped to pick up the supplies.' He holds up a small paper packet. 'We're signed out and ready.'

'We're ready too.' Micheko greets Khosa with a reassuring smile. 'We brought robes. We thought it would be better than nothing.'

'Thank you.' Khosa gazes at their apparatus with hooded eyes. He looks like he didn't sleep a wink. Then again, with what he said about nightmares, that's not surprising. They've given him a fair amount of new fodder. Khosa stops when he gets to Rzhevsky, dozing in his wheelchair. 'Is he all right?'

'I think it's the medicines.' Toru crosses the room to wake him, stopping short of actually touching him, too, though for entirely different reasons. 'Mr Rzhevsky? We're going to get started.'

Dawes is opening the packet. 'They sent PCP,' he says. The packet contains thumbsized vials, a collection of tiny tablets, and gold foil twists. 'Dealer's choice.'

'Funny.' Khosa is stripping out of his clothes, uncomfortably twisting away from Toru's eyes when he looks in that direction. Toru politely averts his gaze. 'Ishaq?' he asks. 'What's the best way to do this?'

Khosa shrugs into one of the short robes, tugging awkwardly at the belt as he rejoins them. 'Pills will take a little longer,' he judges. 'But I've never done it combination with the sensory-deprivation. You said when Quatre did it, it took a while.'

'About forty minutes.'

'The tabs would absorb in forty minutes,' Barton points out from his corner. 'From where I'm sitting, slow isn't necessarily bad. Slow we can deal with.'

'Right.' Toru gives in to a moment of anxiety. 'We're sure these are pure?'

'Lab authenticated.' Dawes peels open the tablets, dropping them onto a corner of the table by all of Winner's things and separating them out into two piles. 'How many?'

'They're small.' Khosa looks behind him, to Rzhevsky, then turns resolutely back. 'At least three.'

Dawes blinks up at him. So does Toru. 'Three is a high dosage,' he says slowly.

'We're not aiming for a recreational high. If you want to really accomplish this, there's no point in incrementalism. We'll be here all day and there's no guarantee of hitting the right point at the same time.'

'I'm not...' He seeks Micheko's approval. All she does is shrug. So does Dawes. Barton gives him even less help than that, staring back almost confrontationally. His call. 'Fine,' he says gruffly.

For all his worries, it looks on its face no different from any of the times he helped Winner with his migraine or sleeping pills. Khosa and Rzhevsky swallow their tablets with large glasses of water, and nothing immediately dire happens. Khosa climbs into his pool with nothing but a shiver for the experience of stepping in, and lays flat with a slow ripple of the water. Rzhevsky is harder. He manages to get out of his chair, but needs Toru and Dawes on either side of him to lower him into the pool, and Toru stays in place with his hands ready beneath Rzhevsky's shoulders and head, afraid he'll keep sinking. He definitely gets wetter than Khosa, soaked to his chin and spitting out the salted water, but he floats well enough, limp because he's too exhausted not to be.

Micheko kills the lights. 'Setting time,' she says quietly, clicking her watch. Dawes settles back on his ankles with avid curiosity. Barton ventures closer, circling to Khosa's side of the room. Toru starts when he hears a metallic clink. Barton, lifting that key off the table. Barton comes to the side of the pool. He reaches in for Khosa's hand, and lays the key in it.

Toru closes his eyes quickly, forcing himself to breathe slowly, deeply, to reach for that inner calm he finds when meditating. It's slow to come today; his heartbeat is too accelerated, his stomach too anxious. He breathes until he can feel a leaden pull at his limbs, a tingle in his fingers. When he opens his eyes, Khosa is glowing.

'Spring,' Khosa whispers. 'In the mountains. There's a white cliff. Wine. An old bicycle. Honeysuckle in the garden.'

'Spain.' Barton tries the jade elephant next. 'Where is he now?'

'I don't...' Khosa sighs out deeply. 'Smoke. Cigarette smoke. Wine again. No... Arrack.'

'Where?'

'I can't see it. Just a place. A town. I can't read the signs.'

'Give him time,' Toru says softly. Barton sits back, tapping his fingers on his knee. He stands. When he comes back, it's with the mobile. He doesn't hand it over, not yet. He sits with it, waiting. His thumb swipes in a caress down the plastic casing, in a spot made shiny by what must be an old, familiar gesture.

The silence seems to go on forever. Toru takes his hands out of the water when Rzhevsky seems to be truly okay, but he doesn't stray far. He does check that his coat is laying right for the button camera. He tucks his hands between his knees. Rzhevsky isn't glowing. It fades on Khosa, too, in and out. But Khosa's trying. Rzhevsky isn't. They're both still as stone except for breathing, short shallow breaths that steam ever so slightly in the chill air. He's close enough, even in the dark, to see the rapid eye movement under Rzhevsky's closed eyelids. Sweat on his upper lip.

His inner clock tells him it's been a half hour. He curls his fingers around the plastic edge of Rzhevsky's tub. 'Try again,' he tells Barton. 'We need something for Rzhevsky to look for.'

Barton reaches in again. He trades the key for the phone. Khosa flinches back from him, splashing the water in his tub, drenching himself for a moment before he regains his equilibrium. His breath comes faster now, ragged.

'Ishaq?' Toru asks, when the silence just drags on. He waits, and says it again, a little louder. Nothing. Khosa's hand is clenched around the phone, but he's got only a pale aura around him. Toru bites his lip, and makes a decision. He stretches the distance and puts his hand on Khosa's shoulder in the water.

And has to catch himself in a sudden swirl of numb dizziness. He's gripping the edge of the pool again, without being aware of it. Barton is looking at him. Barton saw it. But maybe none of the others. He doesn't think-- doesn't think it was-- doesn't know what it was.

But Khosa's mouth is open now, and he's shuddering all over. 'Trains,' he gasps. 'He's using the trains. Travelling at night. It's dark in all the windows. He's alone in the cabin. But not for long... The border is coming.'

'How is he crossing the borders without using his papers?' Micheko asks.

'I don't know. I don't know... he's getting off at the station right before the border and he's walking. It's night and he knows when the guards aren't looking. Then he boards the train again on the other side.'

That seems like a new level of specificity. Maybe it is working. 'Can you see where he's going?' Toru presses him.

The glow flares. Bright and painful. Toru squints against it. 'He doesn't know, I don't think he knows. He's just walking. He's just walking, but there's so many people. He's... he's in a small room. It's dusty and hot and there's a man in uniform... there are bars on the windows...'

'A prison?' Dawes guesses. 'He wouldn't be that dim.'

'If he's drinking arrack to cloud himself enough to be around people, he could get arrested. It's alcohol,' Toru explains, at Micheko's questioning look. She's already pulling out her phone, checking for it. 'He told me that alcohol dulls things for him. It would be easier to get and less crippling than the stuff he usually takes to travel.'

'And more often banned in India,' Micheko says, keeping the bright screen of her phone turned away from the men in the pools. 'He could look totally crazy, you know. Drunk and hearing voices.'

'We still don't have enough to go on. Ishaq. We need something more.'

Barton goes back to the table. This time, it's the picture clip.

The second it touches Khosa's skin, he goes rigid and starts to sink. Barton's faster, grabbing him, and Toru gets there a second later. 'Koh-i-Noor,' he stutters. 'Koh... Koh-i-Noor.'

'Is that a city? A person?'

'I'm searching.' Micheko frowns over her phone as Barton rescues his pictures, rubbing the wet off onto his jeans. Toru tries to hold Khosa by just the soaked fabric of his robe, not sure about that reaction from before, the dizziness. Khosa's head is lolling, and the glow is fading. 'It's a diamond,' Micheko says at last, puzzled. She looks up. 'And it's part of the Crown Jewels of Britain. They're on display in London, not anywhere in India.'

'That can't be what he means.'

'Maybe he just jumped to the end of it. Us bringing Winner back again,' Dawes guesses. 'Mixing time and space is part of the reaction to PCP.'

'But we'd bring him to Brussels, not London.' Toru frees a hand and wipes it dry, extends it for Micheko's phone. She passes it over. 'Koh-i-Noor means “Mountain of Light”,' he reads. 'Why is that significant?'

Barton takes the phone from him. 'Stop thinking like a detective,' he says. 'Think like a Newtype.'

Toru licks his lips. Think like a Newtype. Stop over-thinking, that meant. He shifts back in place to Rzhevsky's pool, and leans down. 'Ivan,' he whispers. 'Koh-i-Noor.'

It's almost too dark to tell. But he thinks he sees Rzhevsky smile, just before the glow bursts into light. Toru blinks, blinded, but the glare doesn't fade. If anything, it's stronger than he's ever seen it.

He braces himself, this time. Knees solid to the floor, one hand on the pool's rim, just in case. But he reaches into the water, sliding his hand through the chill to get to Rzhevsky's arm. He takes a deep breath for himself, for steady nerves, and grips.

He feels-- stretched. Stretched so much he can barely remember himself in London in the basement. It's space and it's places and it's people and it's unbearable, adding them all into him until he's not Toru anymore. And then a light. A single light. A glow. It's Quatre, it has to be. He almost sees his face, his head is turning, and he shouts because he can't not, this is _working_ \--

Rzhevsky's lips move. Toru bends to listen, strains to hear. He isn't certain. Again, he starts to say, gripping Rzhevsky's arm, what is it, where is it.

But there's no time. Rzhevsky is burning hot to the touch, suddenly. His muscles are all rigid, and his eyes are wide, staring. When Toru feels for his pulse in his neck, it's erratic, thudding, thready. 'Get him out,' Toru says.

Barton stays with Khosa while the agents heave Rzhevsky out of the water and onto the floor instead. Dawes grabs the electric blanket while Toru and Micheko work fast to dry him, and they wrap him as best they can. He's shuddering all over, his bare heels kicking on the floor. That blank stare never eases, never blinks, and saliva trails from his open mouth. Micheko breaks away first, to call for emergency response. Toru snaps his fingers in front of Rzhevsky's pallid face, and receives absolutely no response.

'Is this a Newtype thing?' Dawes asks.

'I don't know. Maybe it's the drugs. Maybe it's an overdose.' He scrambles to his feet and bends over the tub with Khosa still floating in it, but Khosa's beyond helping them. When he calls Khosa's name, he gets disorientation. 'We need help,' he starts, but he trails off without finishing. Khosa's face wrenches up with exaggerated sadness, but his mumbles are lost.

'Let's get him back upstairs,' he says, turning back to the others. 'We can--'

'He's got no pulse.' Dawes is shoving the blanket aside, kneeling up to prepare for chest compressions. Micheko goes running for the door, and Toru hears her steps pounding on the stairs outside. But he's frozen in place. 'Damn,' Dawes is panting, pushing and pushing on Rzhevsky's ribcage. 'Damn it!'

Toru swallows with difficulty. In the dark, he can't tell for sure, but Rzhevsky's final ghoulish triumph is a smile.


	17. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Preventers are going to change, now. I think, anyway. Whether we get Heero Yuy back here or not, or Quatre, or someone. They have a list of... they have a lot of knowledge from Rzhevsky about Newtypes, that's one thing to count on. But I think it shook them, in Command. To realise there's no weapons, no software, no skills that deal with something that's essentially magic. Except employing your own magician.'_

There's no fog on the screen.

No sign of the glow. No physical manifestation, like that time in London, when Winner met with Rzhevsky the first time and the tape recorded something that has no possible explanation. But it only looks more impossible against the fact that there's no similar manifestation now. How could there not be? Or is it just because of the dim light? The black-and-white recording?

The recording is sharp enough to pick up other details. He checks it against every angle. The wall-mounted camera. The one in the overhead lamp. The one Toru had worn on his coat. They all show the same thing. Rzhevsky is alive and breathing until Toru reaches into the pool at the end, at the moment he was using his Newtype ability to search for Winner. That's when he goes into respiratory arrest. When Toru touches him.

Toru hears the door in time to tap the screens to a blank mode that reads 'CLASSIFIED', but when he turns it's only Dawes. Who joins him silently, settling back into the spare chair with a wordless nod of greeting. Toru unlocks the screens. One for each camera. He resets playback to the beginning, sound on low.

'They cremated him,' Dawes says finally, when they've watched it twice through and Toru is returning to the beginning again. 'Scotland Yard handled the arrangements, I gather. They'll store the remains.'

'Why not us?'

'Preventers?' Dawes shrugs. 'We've done with our bit. He would have been tried and extradited eventually.'

Toru pauses the video, sure for a moment that he's seen something, but it's just reflection off the surface of the water. He presses 'play' again.

'You plannin' on joining the rest of us any time soon?'

'I'm pretty sure there's no point in that.'

'So you can speak.' Dawes swings his chair about to prop his feet on a half-height file cabinet. 'I wondered, it being so long since you demonstrated. Thought maybe a Newtype had your tongue.'

'That's not funny.' Toru reluctantly pauses the video and faces his fellow Preventer. 'Don't pretend you don't understand. Canada was only half as bad as this. Canada was nothing next to this. I killed a man in custody.'

'A man died in custody,' Dawes corrects.

'Because of me.' Toru gestures at the screens. 'I came up with that. I'm the one who pushed it. There's no getting around that. If I even have a career after this, it will follow me for the rest of it. That's what every commander I have from now until I'm sixty will see first in my file. A man died in custody because I put PCP down his throat and--'

'Did your job,' Dawes finishes. 'I won't pretend it won't hurt you. But you knew that going in. You were stupid enough or brash enough or convinced enough to do it anyway. If you're lucky, you'll find a commander who will think those qualities are worth having around. If you're not, you'll be set back, no question. But you did it, Rzhevsky is dead, and there's no changing it, is there.'

Toru tugs at his collar, which fits a little too tight just now. 'Look. In case they do sack me. There's something you should know.'

He knows the spot on the tape to the second. He drags the cursor, sets it up on all three screens. Dawes leans in to watch, propping his elbows on his knees. It's the moment right after Toru took Rzhevsky's arm in the pool. On the screen, he leans in. The button cam is the one that really captures it. Rzhevsky's lips move, almost, but not quite, a word.

'He said something,' Dawes echoes, pointing out the obvious when Toru won't fill the silence. 'Did you hear it?'

'Yes.' Toru pauses the video. 'He was envisioning Koh-i-Noor. Or whatever. He whispered something. I've been scouring the net. I think it might have been Andhra Pradesh.' He clicks away from the video on one of the screens, and shows Dawes a tourism page. 'The “Koh-i-noor” of India.'

'Good match.' Dawes pulls his chair nearer to read. 'Golden beaches. Ancient limestone caves. Hill resorts, gorges, rivers, waterfalls, biodiversity. Sounds lovely.'

'And he clearly knew about it. He knew what Koh-i-noor referred to. Maybe he searched there before. But if he did, I don't know why he wouldn't have found Yuy, if that's where Yuy is.' Toru tugs at his ponytail, and lets his hand fall limply to his knee. 'It at least explains one thing I was wondering about.'

'Oh?'

'Timeline.' Toru shuts down all the screens, turns the computers off. 'It never made sense that Quatre could get that far ahead of us when he was travelling by boat and rail. But there was always going to be a reason he had the time. Rzhevsky was going to die, and we'd be stalled while we took care of that. We've been cooling our heels here for a week while we deal with the fallout. It might be another week before we get back on the road, if we-- you-- ever do. All the time Quatre ever needed to get to India and find his friend.'

'That's a little too much science fiction for me.' Dawes pushes to his feet. 'From where I stand, nothing's certain until it's happening. Winner got lucky. We didn't.'

'Is...' Dawes stops at the door for his question, but Toru regrets it immediately. 'Um, is-- Walker around?'

'Haven't seen her in a few days,' Dawes answers. 'I think she went back to Brussels.'

'Brussels? Oh.' He definitely regrets bringing it up. 'I-- think we ought to push on dealing with Ishaq. We can't just keep him on Preventers expense forever.'

'Can't return him. He's our only Newtype resource.'

'We returned Quatre.'

'Winner didn't run away. Until he did. Don't take that risk on top of your other fuck-ups,' Dawes advises, not unkindly. 'Speaking of guests, though, Barton's been ringing. Wanting to know when we're back on.'

'You didn't tell him anything?'

'Don't know what I'd say. Commander hasn't said word one to me. Maybe you have a pipeline to information?'

'No.' Toru breathes out through his nose. 'No, I haven't heard anything from anyone.'

Dawes quirks an eyebrow at him. 'Ta,' he says, and goes.

 

**

 

They've stashed Khosa in the barracks. Under guard. Not very subtly under guard.

Toru has to show his badge to the agent standing outside Khosa's door. The door isn't locked-- the lock has been removed, actually. Toru knocks, but he's not at all surprised by the dispirited lack of answer. He goes in when the pause has dragged out awkwardly. He shuts the door before the agent can peer inside too long.

Khosa sits in the only chair, dragged near the window. Which is barred. Even by the standards of the barracks, this place is sterile, and lonely, and awful. The bed doesn't even have a duvet. Just a sheet.

'Hi,' Toru says. 'I didn't hear if you said it was okay for me to come in. I hope it's okay.'

Khosa looks up, clearly startled by his voice. 'Oh, um, hello.' He half-rises, before Toru waves him down. 'I'm sorry, I haven't another chair.'

'It's okay, I've been sitting all day.' Toru finds a bare spot on the wall to stand against. All the wall is bare. 'Getting tired of living out of a suitcase? We could make a run to a store.'

'It's fine.' Khosa brushes him off gruffly. 'You haven't come to the point. Maybe that means there isn't one? You still don't know what's to come next?'

When Dawes asked it, it was just informational. When Khosa asks it, it's accusational. Toru swallows down his immediate retort as useless, takes the time to gather his thoughts. 'No,' he replies finally. 'I don't think Command have made a decision yet.'

Khosa turns back to the window. His hands are clenched on his knees, find their way to hide wrapped tight to his chest. 'I'm not under arrest.'

'No.' Toru does sit, then, on the edge of the bed. The metal frame creaks under his weight. 'You could leave freely. But we'd come after you again, and it would probably get ugly. If you give them a reason to open an investigation into your time in Preventers, they might do it. If they need a scapegoat. They've been burnt by Newtypes, twice now. You're the one they've got left.'

'It's getting harder to pretend we can be friendly, Toru.' Khosa's head ducks away from him. 'I thought you were different than that.'

'I'm a Preventer. At least for the moment.'

'You keep saying that,' Khosa points out. He nods at the room around him, bars and all. 'I'm the one in a cell. Not you.'

Toru sucks in his cheeks, and stares down at his knees. Okay. That's not unfair. It's not untrue. And maybe he is just being stupid and young and self-pitying, waiting for some invisible hammer to fall. Command gave him backing to do what he did with Rzhevsky. It went badly. But Rzhevsky was just one piece of the rest of the Newtype puzzle. None of the rest of that issue has gone away. And that's why Ishaq Khosa is still here, when they could have quietly let him go.

Toru stands. 'I could use a walk out in the air,' he says. 'Come on.'

'What?' Khosa looks at him for that, at least. 'They don't even let me go to Mess on my own.'

'Then a walk will be good for you too. Come on.' Toru opens the door, and walks through it. 'I'm taking him out,' he tells the agent standing there. 'You have a list of approved escorts somewhere? You can call in a name-check. Toru Craft.'

Khosa hasn't moved yet, when Toru looks back for him, suspicious, maybe, or just too beaten down to believe it's possible. So Toru goes to him, collecting a pair of shoes along the way and planting them on the floor at Khosa's feet. He offers a hand, without touching. 'I don't imagine you've been sleeping well,' he says neutrally. 'Still having those nightmares? Come on. Clear your head. It'll be good for you.'

Khosa glances at the bed automatically. Weary loathing. So that's one guess confirmed. Preventers won't be supplying anything stronger than an aspirin, not now. He bends to put on his shoes, and Toru stands back courteously as he rises. The Preventer at the door lets them leave without saying a word.

It's nearing dusk. There's plenty of people on base, but most of them are leaving for the day, headed home. On a normal day-- Toru vaguely remembers those-- he himself would be headed to the Mess Hall for a meal and then back to Brussels Barracks H, to his own assigned room. But here in London he walks Khosa along a unfamiliar path, finding their way past the main stream of people and cars, the back path around the gym and the pool and the track, and from there the bare brown dirt that eventually becomes grey blasted cement, the landing pads for the London fleet of aircraft and mobile suits. Khosa lingers when they find a spot with a particularly good view on the Leos.

'You were a pilot,' Toru remembers. 'During the war.'

'Never a great one, like your father,' Khosa says. 'We were all in awe of him.'

'I wonder if he misses it. Being able to fly.' It's not a thing that's ever occurred to him before. He thinks it now, looking out over all those machines, all those engines that don't exist on Mars. 'Do you? Since you left Preventers?'

'No.' Khosa turns away with a sigh, and resumes their walk. 'If I ever do, it's only for a moment. I miss friends. I miss being part of something. I miss that sense of mission, purpose.'

'I think I'd miss that, too.' Toru pulls the elastic out of his hair. It's giving him a headache. 'I'm... afraid I'm going to find out what it's like,' he confesses, with the air around them going chilly and no-one to hear but this person who's relatively a stranger and has every incentive to turn on him. They're not friends. Khosa's right on that. They can't be. They won't be. Not as long as Toru is clinging to Preventers. Not as long as Preventers lets him. However long that lasts.

Recklessly he says, 'I looked it up. Ajmal. It's a Pakistani name. It's your name, isn't it. Not Ishaq Khosa.'

Khosa's steps slow. Then resume. 'Rzhevsky must have hoped one of you would follow that clue.'

'Probably. I don't care. I don't know if the others followed up on it. Maybe it'll get lost in the chaos. It's a lot of work for us, cleaning up after a dead Newtype. I guess I just wonder if that's what you were thinking about, when you proposed such a high dosage for the experiment.'

Now Khosa does stop walking. Toru faces him. 'You think I killed a man because he threatened to expose my past.'

'Not your past. Your family. You've got kin. You said you had a father. Maybe you've got brothers or sisters, too. Maybe some of them have Newtype abilities. Maybe that's why you panicked so much about Preventers finding you, and why you tried to destroy all the intelligence you stole from White Fang. You weren't trying to protect yourself. We'd already found you. You were protecting someone else we hadn't found yet.'

He's not the only one feeling reckless. Khosa's pale, breathing shallowly, through gritted jaws. 'If you believe that, turn me in.'

'I'm asking first.'

'No.' Khosa shakes his head minutely, strained. 'No. Believe it or not. But I did kill him, either way. I knew he was ill. I knew the dosage might be too much for him. Any less and we might not have got anything. I remind myself he was an evil man and he probably deserved it. That he was dying anyway. But I'm still the one who--'

'No.' Toru almost laughs, a weird light-headed exhale of mirth that expires immediately. 'I've been saying the same things to myself.'

Khosa rubs away the perspiration on his forehead. 'Would Quatre have done it?'

'I don't know.' He drops his head back on his shoulders to stare at the sky. London has too much light pollution for the stars to show at night, but he wishes for them. Instead there's only murky skies, as confused as he is. 'Probably not. Or if he did, it would have been mercy.'

'Do you think we'll still try to find him?'

'Oh, yes,' he says. 'They'll want him more than ever now. And Heero Yuy. Whatever's coming is going to happen, now.'

 

**

 

It takes eleven days from Rzhevsky's death for word to reach them. They have permission to move on to India.

Micheko brings the order with her when she returns from Brussels. It's not under Sally's authority-- it's under Director Sobrinho. Which explains something about the delay. And maybe something about the precarious nature of their mission. Or at least the precarious nature of the trust their commanders have in their ability to carry it out.

'We can fly out from Paris,' Micheko says, taking a seat beside Toru at the conference table. 'After we pick up Mr Barton.'

'I guess he'll be glad he's still invited.' Toru reads the document one more time, but there's apparently nothing between the three lines of text to be plumbed. He abandons the e-reader to the table. 'I notice there's nothing in there about a plan once we land in India.'

'I talked to Commander Po, pretty extensively,' Micheko says. There's nothing about her tone, utterly professional, to be plumbed, either, except for the fact that her eyes don't, won't, linger on Toru's face for more than a second at a time. 'We discussed several different approaches. We agree that the best way to proceed is to use the grid-pattern search we tried in London with Mr Winner, combined with Mr Khosa's ability to see what's going to happen to people. We theorised-- for whatever that's worth-- that getting closer to the actual event might yield greater specificity in Mr Khosa's visions. Barring that, there's always the Flash. We search the area until Khosa identifies another Newtype nearby. It'll either be Mr Winner or Heero Yuy, I guess.'

Dawes is nodding along. 'We should have Barton bring those props of his along. The ones we used during the experiment here.'

'Maybe we should try to get some of Quatre's things from St John's,' Toru adds quietly. 'Khosa had the benefit of a pharmaceutical boost last time. I don't know how clear he'll be without that. Barton's owned those things a lot longer than Quatre.'

'I can take care of that.' Micheko's glance slides over Toru's shoulder. 'I'll have the staff address a package to meet us in Paris.'

'I have one of his books,' Toru says. 'I meant to read it. But I've just been carrying it. We could try first with that, to see if it's worthwhile.'

'Khosa's recovering all right? The last I saw of him he was still a little out of it.'

'Coping,' Dawes answers, when Toru hesitates. 'I think a change of scenery will be welcome.'

'Then let's get moving.' Micheko stands. 'Someone want to warn Mr Barton we'll be coming?'

'I—' Toru starts.

'I'll ring him,' Dawes says. 'And I'll get us tickets arranged. No, don't worry about it, Craft. You've got your hands full with Khosa.'

Not really. But once he sees what they're doing, he's wise enough to shut up and let them do it. If those orders were meant to hold anything specific for Toru, they would. They very clearly don't.

He's not quite wise enough not to be hurt by the way Micheko leaves without saying anything directly to him. But he tells himself he was past expecting it, given that she left without saying good-bye, too.

He's learning what to look for, with Khosa, the same as he had with Winner. When Khosa holds the book in his hands, his eyelashes flutter, for just a moment, and then the eyes beneath the lids are busy, like in REM sleep, moving, seeing something that only exists in the mind. The tendons in his hands go tight, pressure on the pads of his fingers, relenting slowly.

'He's had this book a long time,' Khosa says in a low hollow voice. 'It was a gift from someone he admired. A big man. Ferocious beard. He's read it dozens of times.'

Toru can imagine that for himself. Maybe all the little library in Winner's suite at St John's is like that. Precious memories of a life on the outside. A small collection because it has to be. A small collection because there's so little, really, to draw on. He's never quite realised it, before. Winner was the same age Toru is now, when he went in to St John's.

Toru clears his throat. 'Now?' he asks.

'Now.' Khosa inhales deeply, grips the book tightly. 'Bars. The place with bars on the window. A man with a uniform. I think. I think that's what's happening now.'

'You said that before. You think maybe it's a prison? A jail?'

'I don't know. If he's there long enough for it to register, it's significant.'

'You don't see every day in a life?'

'Then I truly would go mad.' Khosa shakes his head with a soft sigh. 'I don't know. I can't see anything clearly. It's-- all murky.'

'What about after the prison, then?'

There's silence, now. A longer silence than before. Khosa almost speaks, then hesitates. 'It's strange,' he says finally. 'Every time it starts to come to clarity it-- slips away. It's never happened.'

Toru shifts on Khosa's lone chair, automatically checking the window, though for what he couldn't have said. Someone standing outside with a Newtype-interference satellite, maybe. 'Can you describe it better than that? Slips away?'

'That's literally what it feels like. Like I almost have it, and it goes slipping off into the dark. Or rather, the light. Fuzzy gold light.'

That catches Toru's attention. That's not too far off from what he thought he'd seen, when he'd touched Rzhevsky in the pool, and been-- carried along with him, or whatever it was that had happened then. 'A point of light, or an aura?' he specifies.

Khosa only shrugs helplessly, letting the book fall limply to his lap. He rubs his eyes. 'I don't know. I'm sorry. It's the damnedest thing.'

'It's okay.' Toru sighs for himself, and stretches to take the book back. He fingers the many dogears on the top corners, years of flipping down and flipping back up again leaving indelible lines in the thick paper. Winner with his old things that all have meaning. Old clothes. Old keys. Old phones. Paper books, when everyone's been using readers for decades. Toru stuffs the book into his bag.

'We'll try it again with more of Quatre's things in Paris,' he says. 'Are you ready?'

'What's going to happen to me when this is over?'

'I don't know.' He doesn't say it to mock or mimic, but Khosa grimaces as if he had. Toru rubs the strap of his bag, chews at the inside of his cheek. 'You should have a plan.'

'Plan?' Khosa gestures to the room around him. A room with bars, and a man in a uniform, and no future visible on the other end of it. 'How?' he asks tiredly.

'Make us an offer.' Toru stands, and pulls the strap over his shoulder. 'Join us. On a more permanent basis. On your terms.'

'I haven't got anything to negotiate,' Khosa says, but the idea clearly startles him.

'Don't you? They're paying a full-time agent to stand still outside your door. They could be paying you a salary to do more than sit waiting to use your talent every other week.' Toru hugs the strap across his chest. 'Preventers are going to change, now. I think, anyway. Whether we get Heero Yuy back here or not, or Quatre, or someone. They have a list of... they have a lot of knowledge from Rzhevsky about Newtypes, that's one thing to count on. But I think it shook them, in Command. To realise there's no weapons, no software, no skills that deal with something that's essentially magic. Except employing your own magician.'

Khosa laughs at that. He wipes at his face. 'You exhaust me sometimes. You take some wild leaps, Toru.'

'I get that a lot.'

 

**

 

Toru had hazily imagined that Trowa Barton, Arms Dealer, would live in an underground bunker somewhere, surrounded by Gundam-age weaponry, a fortress against people and feelings and interactivity. He's pleasantly surprised by the very nice house in a green Parisian suburb. There's a bit of a hill with worn slate steps rising up the path; yellow and orange and red flowers growing in a wild riot all surrounding; green shutters on the many windows, and ivy growing romantically up the south-facing wall; and a sharp peak of an attic with curling eaves to either side.

He immediately thinks that the boyfriend must have picked it, and feels slightly ashamed of himself.

When they park their car alongside the drive, Barton emerges to greet them. That, at least, performs to expectations. But Barton says nothing at all to them, except 'I'm not ready yet.'

Dawes shrugs at Toru over the hood of the rental. 'Flight's not for a few hours, yet.'

'Do you need help with anything, sir?' Toru asks Barton.

'Not from you.' Barton turns on a heel and goes back inside.

Micheko blows out a breath. 'Right on schedule, I guess.'

Toru gives up waiting in about sixty seconds. He crooks a finger at Khosa. 'Come with me.'

Khosa blinks at him, shading his eyes from the morning glare. 'Me?'

'He doesn't actively hate you. Something's going on.' The door Barton slammed through is fronted by a kitchen garden, growing herbs and carrots and peas and tomatoes. Toru wipes his feet on the mat, and tests the latch. Open. That seems oddly careless, for Barton. He knocks, just as a precaution, and enters slowly. Khosa dogs him a step behind, peering around curiously.

'Nice,' Toru notes. The kitchen is pretty, like the outside, with the window open for the spring air-- and spring is a lot nicer here than in London or Canada. Toru takes a pot of boiling water off the burner and turns off the gas. 'Hello?' he calls.

'In the sous-sol,' Khosa says. When Toru looks back with an eyebrow raised, Khosa clarifies, 'The cellar. I can hear voices from the floor vent.'

Toru bends and finally spies it on the other side of the icebox. Sure enough, there are tinny voices. 'Okay,' he says. 'Now we look for stairs.'

'We don't want to just wait for him?'

'We're about to leave for India to search for his long-lost love and he's stalling. Just spit-balling, but I assume there's a reason.'

Khosa stops him from opening the door around the kitchen corner by laying a hand on it. 'I know you're feeling sidelined, but don't push him too hard just because that's all you can do right now.'

Toru hunches his shoulder. 'I wouldn't necessarily do that.'

'I know. Just reminding you.'

God. 'You and Quatre are going to get along aces,' Toru mutters, and opens the door.

The cellar stairs are creaky wood, so they've announced themselves by the time they reach the bottom of the narrow stairwell. But the argument they're interrupting goes on unabated. Toru makes an effort not to directly listen, but he hears the name being angrily spat back and forth, and it doesn't take a big leap of logic to guess what the argument is about. Quatre.

Toru ducks under a low-hanging beam and steps out onto brushed dirt. The cellar is at least ten degrees colder than the house above, but there are fans blowing anyway, dust rolling across the floor. Toru turns one off, and clears his throat.

MacLeod turns, mid-word. 'Agent,' he says, fumbling with the tools in his hands. There's a half-finished sculpture, a big thing of clay that looks melty and leftward-leaning. MacLeod tosses a sheet over it and wipes his hands on the edge. 'I didn't realise you were here already.'

'Sorry about the timing.' Toru stays where he is, Khosa lingering on the stairs behind him. 'Is there anything I can help with? We were hoping to be on the road toward the airport soon.'

'About that.' MacLeod lifts his chin at Barton, who looks away. 'You're really going to India with no idea where you're landing?'

'We know which state Quatre's in,' Toru says. 'We have some plans about tracking him down.'

'And it's going to take how long?' MacLeod confronts them one by one. 'You don't know. You can't know. With Quatre's abilities, he could stay ahead of you forever.'

'That's always possible, but I don't think that's what's going to happen.' He ventures a few steps closer, but stops a respectful distance away. 'I can't tell you everything, but I think we've got good reason to believe we'll be able to find Quatre.'

'When?' MacLeod presses. 'A few days? A week? A month?' He slaps off the other fan, plunging them into sudden quiet. 'You have a job here. We have a home here and you've barely been in it lately.'

That's not directed at Toru. Barton takes it with a stony expression. 'You know why I'm going.'

'Oh, I think I do, yes.' MacLeod dumps a bucket of water into a drain, splashing the dirt all around him. 'I just wonder if you've admitted it yet.'

'I owe him,' Barton says through grinding jaws. 'I can't walk away from that.'

'I think I've pretended to be okay with this so long I've contributed to the problem.' Barton moves to take the bucket away, and MacLeod steps back sharply. 'The Tuesday calls were almost understandable. But not this flying all over the world running after him.'

'It's not like that.' Barton flicks grim, unhappy eyes at Toru and Khosa, who both look uncomfortably away. 'We fought a war together. He's the only one left. I wouldn't walk away from him, or from Heero either. Finding them is important to me.'

MacLeod ducks his head. 'I understand that,' he says softly. 'I'm not asking you to give up on him. But you need to think seriously about what we are, and which commitment comes first.'

Barton's chest heaves in a deep inhale. 'Are you giving me an ultimatum?'

'No.' MacLeod finally discards the bucket. 'I shouldn't have to.' He brushes past Toru on his way to the stairs; Toru steps aside for him, Khosa at his back. 'Agent,' MacLeod mumbles, and climbs up past them.

Toru looks back at Barton, standing by the sculpture in the shadow of a big lamp. He wets his lips, wondering if he ought to speak or just stand there acting like he didn't hear two men breaking up their relationship. 'If you want to stay,' he offers at last. 'We could probably do it without you.' The glare Barton turns on him is deservedly murderous. Toru holds up both hands defencively. 'Sorry. Sorry.'

'I'm packed,' Barton says. 'Go get my bag. It's by the front door.'

Toru knows better than to protest that. 'Yeah,' he agrees. 'We'll see you out by the car when you're ready.'

'Trouble?' Micheko asks, when they leave the house with Barton's luggage. Dawes opens the boot for him, and Toru loads it in. Khosa takes the garden bench, to look through the package from St John's. He spreads artefacts on the slats around him, one by one.

Toru squints up at the bright morning sun, and slips on dark glasses from his pocket. 'Trouble,' he echoes. 'No. Not for us.'

'Is he coming out here any time soon?'

'He will. Give him a minute.' Toru crosses the grass to Khosa's bench. He crouches at the edge of a fragrant rosemary bush, and examines the contents of the package. Whichever agent went to St John's to do it had made a good selection, however that had been decided. Toru picks up the digital frame, the same one he'd seen the first time he'd met Winner. When he turns it on, it's still set to the picture of Winner's sister's family. Now Toru finds the menu, and flicks through the other available files. He's not surprised to find the picture of Winner and Barton as teenagers in that anonymous pub, the same picture Barton carries in hardcopy.

'Would you mind doing it in the car?' he asks Khosa. 'Or maybe on the plane. It would be a distraction for you.'

Khosa shoots a look at the other Preventers from under lowered eyes. 'I'd rather not do it front of them. If that's all right.'

'I understand. You might want to think about getting used to them watching, though.' Toru turns off the frame and picks up a pair of silver cufflinks. It takes a moment to recognise the seal on the face. The Kingdom of Sanq. Toru sighs as he sets those aside. 'What Mr Barton said. About the war.'

'You don't understand him?' Khosa nudges an empty champagne bottle, spinning it in a slow revolution. The year on the label is 196. 'Loyalty is a strange thing. It's the heart of all the virtues, and the central duty amongst all the duties. And loyalty must be practised. It must be actively engaged upon, not just a strong feeling. It must be a whole-hearted commitment that binds comrades together in service.'

'Fine words.' Toru cradles a tea cup, fitting his palms around the curved sides. 'Is that a book? What you're quoting from?'

'Josiah Royce.' Khosa lets the box drop to the grass. He presses his hands between his knees. 'It went the rounds in White Fang, in the early days. When we thought our cause was good and just.'

'That matters, doesn't it.'

'Yes. I think it does.'

'So finding Heero Yuy and Quatre? That's a good cause?'

Khosa shakes his head. 'If you're looking to me for advice, I think you'll find I'm a poor source. Anyway, it doesn't matter what I think, does it? You'll find them. Preventers will triumph at least in that.'

'And maybe in integrating Newtypes.' Toru bites his bottom lip until it starts to go numb. 'Did becoming a Newtype make you feel... I don't-- I don't know exactly what I'm asking. Sorry. I--'

Dawes gets back into the car and starts it. Just for the radio, though. He rolls down the window for the fresh air. Micheko leans on the passenger side, her chin on her hands.

'It's hard to see the cause sometimes,' Toru says then. 'When we were tracking down Rzhevsky, I understood that. He was evil and stopping him was important. But that was my first big case and I haven't-- felt that way before or-- after.'

'That happens,' Khosa agrees quietly. 'I left White Fang because I lost that connection.'

'But you stayed a long time before that. You became a Newtype because you thought your cause was so important that you needed to be that to serve it.' There's a faint brownish stain inside the tea cup, years of use on display. A tiny chip in the gold gilt on the porcelain rim. 'Becoming a Newtype-- going through what you had to do, the training, the-- whatever it took to become a Newtype-- did it-- help? Help you see what was important?'

'I don't know that I'm sure what you're asking.'

Toru puts the cup back into the box, in a bit of wrinkled tissue. 'I've only met three of you, but you've got one strong commonality. You're loyal to your causes. Rzhevsky's cause was evil, but he was devoted to it. Quatre still talks about the war and what happened back then as if it were yesterday. You had White Fang, and Preventers after that. And it matters to you, all of you, to have a cause to be loyal to.'

Khosa drops low to his elbows on his knees, head bowed. 'I don't think becoming a Newtype made us that way. I think we became Newtypes because we felt the calling. It's human. Not anything different.'

Whatever more they might say is stopped by Barton's arrival. The kitchen door opens, and boots appear. Toru cranes his head up.

'Let's go,' Barton says shortly, and stalks to the car.

 

**

 

Barton gets drunk on the plane.

So does Toru. What the hell. Barton orders vodka on rocks, and Toru does too. It tastes awful, but he drinks two glasses of it, until his head feels hot and funny and he can't really feel his fingers. Micheko is three rows ahead of him, watching the in-flight film with headphones on, and she never looks back at him. Khosa does, but then when the lights go low he drifts off into uneasy sleep. Toru orders another drink.

Just before they enter Indian airspace Barton stumbles to his feet and drags slowly up the aisle to the toilet. Toru watches him go by, and stuffs his back pillow under his head, then moves it to his back again. He's unbearably tired. He isn't even vaguely sleepy. Barton's in there at least five minutes. Barton isn't coming back. Toru levers himself to his feet. It's not especially easy to stay there. He hits his own seat with his elbow, trying to turn for the toilets. He trips on someone's bag, extended into the aisle.

Okay. It takes a lot of concentration to put one foot in front of the other. And there's no answer to his knock when he gets there. He checks to be sure, blearily bending to poke at the red 'Occupied' triangle. That's how he discovers that the door isn't fully latched. It opens when he pushes at the vulnerable middle hinge. Toru cracks it, just a little, and whispers, 'Mr Barton? You okay?'

The mumble that answers him sounds a little like 'Fuck off', delivered too tiredly to finish. Toru pushes the door open the rest of the way and leans on it. Barton is sitting on the toilet-- trousers up, at least, though Toru only belatedly realises he was risking it. The cubicle smells a little like vomit and a lot like especially noxious cleanser. Toru bites his lips together.

'Got it all out?' he asks eventually.

Barton rubs groggily at his face. He's unsteady getting to his feet, using the close walls for balance. 'I didn't invite you in here,' he says.

There isn't room for Toru to help, assuming he could. 'You want to head back to your seat? Get a fizzy to settle your-- nerves?'

'I don't have fucking nerves.' Barton sucks in his cheeks, eyes low for a moment in which Toru almost grabs to bend him toward the sink, anticipating a mess. It passes, or it never comes, perhaps, because the hollow look never really goes away. 'I don't have anything,' Barton says, a breath of air with sound barely aspirated, and Toru swallows.

'We'll find him,' he answers.

'I should let him go.' Barton grips the edge of the tiny sink, knuckles white. 'I should have let him go when Heero disappeared. It was selfish. It was for me, not for him.'

'It kept him sane. It kept him holding on. You can't doubt that.'

'It's not a good enough reason.' Barton inhales, aborts it. 'When we were younger. Your age. They used to do this. Hunt him. To use him. He said it, he said he should-- it would be better for the world if he didn't-- if he disappeared. I said no. Twenty years later it's me making the decision for him again.'

The plane drops a few feet, rocking the floor under them. Toru puts his shoulders to the shivering wall; Barton just weathers it, balanced enough for that, somehow, if not the storm in his own head. He's grey down to the fingertips, but he's standing. That, Toru thinks, feels in his bones, that's the answer to all of it. He won't remember it later, maybe, but right this moment it answers for everything. Standing through all of it. He makes himself stand without support, feet spread, knees locked.

'Okay,' he says. 'So maybe that's all true. But here's the reality. Ivan Rzhevsky would still have gone around murdering Newtypes and maybe Quatre would have been one of them, if he hadn't been at St John's, living quietly, living openly. And let's just assume that Preventers would have caught Rzhevsky eventually even if we hadn't had Quatre helping us-- he's said that London was the last big city and he was getting sloppy. Once we had Rzhevsky we would have had Rzhevsky's list of Newtypes, and we would have Ishaq because he was on that list, and Ishaq would still be looking for some Newtype Preventers wanted found right now. Maybe it would be Heero Yuy, maybe it would be Quatre Winner. Any way you look at it, we end up back here on this plane, you and me.'

'Quat does that.' Barton digs his thumb into his eyesockets. 'Runs realities at me. You sound like him. I hate it when he does it, too.'

'No, you don't.' The plane drops again, bouncing passengers in their seats, but Toru rolls with it this time, stays upright. 'It's okay. To want to know they're safe. To want to find them.'

'Dragging them back to be pawns.'

'You were pawns for Dekim Barton, once.' Toru shrugs his shoulders. 'Ask him his opinion on how well that went.'

Barton's head comes up. There's a second-- maybe-- of understanding between them. Barton looks away first. Toru turns his head, to gaze up the aisle.

'Tomato juice,' he says. 'Get some salt and vitamins back into you. Then a lot of water.'

Barton runs water over his hands, splashes his face. He dries himself on his sleeve. 'Move,' he says, and Toru does. Barton doesn't look back as he walks back to his seat.


	18. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's not the same as that moment with Rzhevsky. He doesn't feel-- outside himself. If anything, it's like falling over the lip of a canyon, deep inside himself. He feels a wave of severe dizziness, but it's gone in only a moment, so brief he barely staggers from it. Barely has time to think on it. He's being swallowed by a warm golden-- fuzz. Like fur, hair pricking his skin all over, tickling softly. Brilliantly gold, burnished and bright. But not coming from Khosa. Coming from himself._

'No luck with the prisons,' Dawes reports, standing to reach over Toru for the bowl of naan. 'Hyderabad has a central case management system, but not every city reports at the same time, and some of the smaller localities don't report up at all. I had them search on white, blond Joe Bloggs as well as Quatre Winner. There were a few seemed promising for a minute, but all the white foreigners in custody had passports. We've got no indication Winner's adopted any kind of disguise, or had the time to fake identification papers.'

Toru helps himself to two more spoonfuls of biryani. The restaurant is noisy with chatter and they don't stand out, for all they're a group of white foreigners themselves. There seems to be a mix of languages around him, all flowing interchangeably between table partners; Toru's phone quietly identifies Hindi, Urdu, even English before it finally snags Telugu, Andhra Pradesh's official language, almost two hours into the meal. Toru rolls a chunk of lamb in sauce and then rice and chews silently, keeping his eye on the processing of data, not his own dinner companions.

'For my money, he would have avoided Hyderabad,' Micheko says. She settles back with her tea, twisting her ponytail over her shoulder. Perspiration gleams on her neck. 'It's a huge city. There's too many people here. It's as bad or worse than London or Brussels, and we're not here running interference for him.'

Tempers have flared a few times since landing in India three days ago. Local Preventers have been helpful enough, in that they provided a single computer terminal and access to translation software, and recommended a hotel near the outskirts of the city that catered primarily to tourists. Tempers were probably related to the heat, too. It's early spring in London, and late summer here. Since leaving the airport it's been nothing but humid, muggy air, dead of even breeze in the middle of a city of tall buildings crammed tightly together. The only one who seems to actually enjoy the change is Khosa, who eats briskly, walks straight, does what he's told and never contributes an opinion.

Toru drains his waterglass, and turns off his phone. 'The question we should probably be asking is whether Heero Yuy would be here, and if Quatre would brave the city to find him. Barton?'

'Heero never liked cities,' Barton says only, squishing a block of paneer into thinner and thinner whey on his plate.

Micheko sighs impatiently. 'Well, we can't drive all over the entire city. We need a better plan. Mr Khosa, can we try again?'

Khosa turns his head from listening to something at another table. 'Try again?'

'Your ability. To locate Mr Winner.'

'If you like,' Khosa answers, quite politely. 'It's been the same every time, though. Bars on the window, and a man in uniform.'

Micheko makes a face. Dawes is disciplined enough not to, but he does concentrate on his food that much harder, grimly dragging shreds of his naan through the green sauce. Toru searches for a server, to signal for more water. No-one says anything else.

 

**

 

'So he's locked up somewhere,' Barton says. He watches a group of young American girls splash about in the pool with evident misgiving, a slight frown creasing his forehead. He doesn't look up when an Indian server brings a tray of water bottles to their table, but his eyelashes quiver when the server bends over him. 'We're moving on without any idea of where?'

Toru murmurs thanks to the man, and twists the cap off the bottles, setting them out for Barton and Khosa. 'I still think we should settle the question of which one we're trying to find,' he mutters, but he's presented that quandry to Dawes and Micheko already and been put off. He's the junior-most agent, and his punishment for Rzhevsky's death isn't over, yet. 'Yuy wouldn't be in a city. We should be heading for the countryside.'

'I thought Rzhevsky found most of his victims in cities,' Khosa murmurs, sipping his water gingerly. He sets the bottle aside quickly as if it pains him. That's the only part of the India trip that's been a difficult trip for him.

Barton turns his head for this answer, at least, meeting his eyes almost rudely. Barton has been half of what's making India a difficult trip. He hasn't forgiven Toru for witnessing his vulnerable moment on the plane, even if Toru did keep it to himself. But at the moment he's one of the only people who listens when Toru talks, even if it's just to correct him or shut him down.

'He did,' Toru admits reluctantly. 'But if Yuy was in a city, it stands to reason that Rzhevsky would have found him the way he found all the others. He passed through India. He killed two Newtypes in Mumbai.'

'That's a lot of Indian cities unexplored,' Barton says.

'But think about it. Quatre figured out early that cities were too dangerous. My parents lived in the countryside of Sanq.'

'And I lived in suburban Montreal,' Khosa finishes. 'It's different for all of us. Crowds can be protection as well as a threat.'

Toru puts the sweating bottle to his forehead for the coolness. It's only momentary relief. Outside on the hotel's pretty limestone patio, even the breeze isn't enough to keep the oppressive heat away. He and Khosa are down to shirtsleeves. Barton's foregone even that formality, and sits in his undershirt with the evening going to dark. He gets considering looks from some of the women on the patio. If he notices, he ignores it.

'There is one thing to consider,' Toru says then. 'We've exhausted the resources of the local Preventers' office. We're not going to gain much else from trying to meet up with the local branches in other cities. We'll be at this a long time if we just go city to city trying the grid pattern waiting on a Flash.'

'We knew we'd be at this a while,' Khosa says. 'What other options are there?'

Toru leans forward on his wicker chair, propping his elbows on his knees. 'We could try what Rzhevsky did. Finding them with his talent.'

Barton blinks. Khosa stares outright. 'I can't do that,' he protests.

'Why couldn't you?' Toru counters. 'Quatre learnt how. It got him all the way to India.'

'Quat could read Rzhevsky's mind to figure it out firsthand,' Barton points out sharply. 'You don't personally know how Rzhevsky did it. You can't tell Ishaq.'

'I can guess, and we've got the perfect environment for another experiment.'

Khosa inhales sharply. 'Our last experiment didn't end well. I don't think we ought to leap into another with no better idea of what we're getting into.'

'I don't disagree with that,' Toru says, flexing his hands into his thighs. 'And I'm not talking about trying to replicate what we did in London. No drugs. No basements. But there's a very simple place to start here. Meditation.'

'And then what?' Khosa laughs helplessly. 'Toru, I... I have no idea how Rzhevsky did what he did. The very idea of what you're suggesting-- we never shared abilities. Or tried to replicate them. We had the ability we had, it took time, years sometimes, to identify, develop that.'

'But there's no actual reason why you couldn't do it. Quatre proved it could be done. And the very fact that you did have to work to develop your ability indicates that there's some kind of process that can utilised. I've been thinking about this. Everything Rzhevsky told us about the development of the Newtype programme says to me that it's the individual who matters, and not the inborn ability. Quatre's told me he was born with some kind of empathy, but that's not really what his ability is now. And he even said once that he's known people who had some kind of proto-ability as pre-teens but didn't systematically develop it, and they didn't become Newtypes. I think there's a lot that could come out of thinking about next steps for the Newtypes. Not just learning how to adopt more than one ability. Maybe even learning how to combine your abilities to do new things altogether. Like you, Ishaq. If you could learn how to locate other Newtypes like Rzhevsky did, and combine it with your ability to see them in specific times and places in the future, you might not have to use their belongings anymore.'

Barton stands abruptly and leaves. Toru straightens to watch him go; Khosa bites his lip. 'Ignore it,' Toru says finally. 'He hates the government. He hates Preventers. The idea that we'd try to use Newtypes as weapons. He was never going to like hearing that from me.'

Khosa sips his water quietly, troubled. 'It's not that it's a bridge too far,' he says finally. 'You probably would have been a dream for my commanders in White Fang. You've got imagination to spare and you understand... you understand Newtypes more than people on the outside usually do. But let's talk in practicalities. What do you really think we can do tonight? Even tomorrow? Especially with your fellow agents keeping you on a short leash.'

Toru acknowledges that with a dip of his head. 'Exactly what I said. Meditation. I was teaching Quatre before he disappeared. There are lamas and spiritualists who claim to be able to leave their body during meditation and travel with their minds. That's not so different from what Rzhevsky was doing.'

A footstep in the gravel on the patio is their only warning. Barton. He returns with three tall glasses of clear liquid. 'Vodka,' he says. 'Don't make a face, Kid. We may not have access to drugs here, but we can still make cocktails. Grain alcohols have enough kick to get it started without blocking it, in low doses.'

Toru is the one left blinking, this time. 'Thanks,' he says slowly. 'I didn't know that. Quatre says he doesn't like to drink.'

'You have to listen between the lines with Quat.' Barton resumes his seat and pushes one of the glasses at Khosa. 'One glass sharpens. Two blurs.' Barton takes a swallow from the second glass, looking at Toru over the rim. 'The pool closes in a hour. If you want permission for us to stay out here and float around, you'd better find a manager and ask.'

Khosa screws his mouth to side. He lets out a soft chuckle. 'What the hell,' he murmurs. 'It's better than sitting alone in my room.'

Toru scrubs his chin with a hand, and stands. 'That it is. I'll go get us that permission. And... if Dawes or Micheko happen to drop by...'

'We're just three men having a drink,' Barton replies, absolutely unwinking promise.

The sun goes down while Toru is inside negotiating with the front desk. By the time he returns, the employee lighting the torches lining the pool is being met by another uniformed staffer telling him to leave the lights low. Barton collects towels from the pool concierge before they close for the night, stocking their table with a sizable pile. Khosa drinks his vodka, studious sips over the course of twenty, thirty, forty minutes, fingers tapping on his knee, eyes wearily low. It seems to take forever for night to fall, a hot velvety darkness, buzzing with strange insects. Toru scratches at welts that appear on his arms and neck, but never sees anything actually biting him.

'The same as in London?' Barton asks finally.

'I should think.' Toru rises from his chair and steps out far enough to peer into the corners. They appear to be alone. The lobby, visible through the big glass doors, has a few people in it, but they seem to be staff, busy with night-time tasks, like pushing laundry toward the corridors. No-one is paying any attention to the pool outside, and it's probably not even visible out the windows, with all that light reflecting off the glass. They're alone on the outside. 'Um, maybe we start with just-- how you doing, Ishaq?'

Khosa stands. 'Mellow,' he reports, with a slightly wobbly smile. 'Is the water warmer than in London, at least?'

Toru toes off his loafer and dips a toe over the edge of the tiled pool. 'Feels nice,' he says. 'It'll be a relief after all this heat, I think.'

'I don't mind the heat. Reminds me of growing up in the mountains.' Khosa strips his shirt to the chair. 'Should I mention that I still don't know what to do?'

Toru unbuttons his shirt, and lets it drop to the tile. 'Me neither. Maybe we'll be pleasantly surprised.'

Barton stays a few feet away from them, perched on the steps with water lapping at his bare legs. Toru climbs down into the pool with Khosa, the same as he had the first time in London with Winner. Just as he had with Winner, he guides Khosa down to float on his back, supporting him under the shoulders until Khosa floats easily on his own. When he peers up, there's starlight limning the tall overhangs of the hotel built up all around them, as if they were floating in the bottom of a deep octangular well. Toru inhales deeply, spreads his feet evenly on the grainy-feeling floor of the pool, rolls his head on his shoulders.

'Close your eyes,' he instructs Khosa. 'Start with the breathing, the way we've practised. Imagine your breath leaving your body slowly, one vein at a time, leaving you empty and weightless. Think only of your heartbeat, but don't count it. Just relax into it.'

Barton sits as still as a statue while Khosa meditates. Toru only notices it when he pulls himself out of it, to check on the glow. It's there. Still not as a strong as it was with Winner, but a solid aura nonetheless, rippling with their little movements in the water.

Emotion, Khosa had said, back in London. It was the emotion that was important, not the lift from a drug or a drink. And that's when the Newtype abilities work the best. When they're angry. Or scared. For themselves. For someone they love.

Winner had gone into a pool to find a murderer. He'd claimed it hadn't worked, but maybe it had. Winner had been suffering in London, had been afraid of Preventers, afraid of what they'd do, of what Rzhevsky would do to other Newtypes. He'd glowed. He'd done something more than just think. He'd been using his own ability, that ability to see reality in a different way, and he'd come out of it realising that Rzhevsky's ability was to locate other Newtypes. Rzhevsky had gone in angry, maybe afraid of what Preventers would do if they located Heero Yuy, and he'd performed a minor miracle-- he'd found Koh-i-Noor, at the expense of his own life.

Toru presses his teeth together between his lips, and crouches low in the water, putting his head beside Khosa's. 'Agent Dawes looked up your name,' he whispers. 'Your real name. He found your family.'

Khosa swallows hard. The water around him shivers.

'I don't know what will happen with that. Maybe nothing. But I thought you should know.' Toru chews at the inside of his cheek, trying to read Khosa's frozen face in the dim. 'The faster we find Quatre or Heero Yuy, the faster we have a good distraction.'

One of Khosa's hands is a fist. It spasms out into rigid fingers as Toru stands, dripping. 'Think about the Flash,' he says, only a little louder than before, pitched just to reach Khosa and Barton, sitting so near. 'Think about what the Flash feels like. Just concentrate on that.'

A lick of breeze brushes over his shoulders. He shudders. It's gone almost as quickly. Khosa's glow is filmy, stretching out from him like his fingers, lapping back. Barton is standing, now, too.

'Think about Quatre in that place with bars on the window. A man in uniform. Think about Quatre there, and think about the Flash.'

'Koh-i-Noor,' Barton says.

'Think about Quatre at Koh-i-Noor.' Think like a Newtype. Koh-i-Noor... 'Maybe it's not a place,' Toru murmurs to Khosa. 'Maybe Koh-i-Noor is Heero Yuy. Just think of it out there, like the Flash, waiting to be felt. The only way to find Koh-i-Noor is to find Quatre.'

Khosa's parted lips drag in a deep lungsful of air. The glow flares, bright, for just a moment. Toru slips his hands under Khosa's shoulders, to keep him floating, as he sinks a little lower into the pool water. Toru rubs his nose along his shoulder. He's still not sure what happened in London, when he touched Rzhevsky. If touching Rzhevsky had anything to do with him dying. But it definitely made some kind of portal into whatever Rzhevsky was seeing. He doesn't believe he imagined that-- there was no reason for him to imagine that. He just doesn't want it to do harm.

So Toru takes a dare of his own, and lifts his hands in the water until his fingers are cupping Khosa's biceps. He bites his lips, and grips.

It's not the same as that moment with Rzhevsky. He doesn't feel-- outside himself. If anything, it's like falling over the lip of a canyon, deep _inside_ himself. He feels a wave of severe dizziness, but it's gone in only a moment, so brief he barely staggers from it. Barely has time to think on it. He's being swallowed by a warm golden-- fuzz. Like fur, hair pricking his skin all over, tickling softly. Brilliantly gold, burnished and bright. But not coming from Khosa. Coming from himself.

All right. All right. He doesn't know what it means. If it means anything, except that he'll never get answers if he doesn't do what he's here to do, and maybe that's the only reason at all that he's in India, in this pool, in this search for a man who doesn't want to be found. He has to find Quatre, for himself.

_Quatre. Where are you?_

Stretching. Reaching. Reaching, and it's a long distance, but not nearly as far as it was that day in London. And just when he feels so thinned out his bones will vanish, he sees sunlight gleaming on blond hair, as a head turns toward him.

'You called his name,' Barton observes, and the sound of someone else's voice breaks his reverie.

Toru opens his eyes. 'Uh,' he says, and coughs. He lets go of Khosa, who is already spreading his arms and setting his feet down on the bottom of the pool. 'Did you, um, Ishaq? See anything?'

'I'm not entirely sure,' Khosa says, apologetic, as he rubs his hand through his wet hair, scattering droplets. 'I thought, perhaps, for a second.'

Toru wets his hand and splashes his face. He feels hot all over. Khosa is wading in for the edge, and Toru follows. 'What did you see? Anything useful? Signs? Landmarks?'

'I don't know.' Khosa sinks to his elbows on the pool's ledge, propping his chin on his crossed forearms. 'Maybe I only saw it because I wanted to. Wouldn't it be a trick, if I could do anything at all with my Newtype burden.'

That comes out bitter. Toru swallows drily. That was unfair, telling him that about Dawes. Even if it worked.

Barton tosses a towel at him, and one at Toru as well. 'Philosophy later,' he says brusquely. 'You saw what?'

Toru hauls himself out of the pool and about-faces to sit on the edge, legs dangling in the cool water. The heat feels more oppressive than ever, now, but the bugs are staying away for the moment. He drapes the towel over his shoulders, but shrugs it off immediately. Khosa rubs his nose, sleeks back his hair.

'Flowers,' he answers finally. 'Honeysuckle. And a bike.'

Barton is already shaking his head. 'You said that in London. You're seeing Spain. The house we had in Spain.'

'But I don't think that I am. I think it's here. In India. I can't be sure, obviously, but it didn't feel like something old. There's a garden, and a house almost hidden by the flowers, and the honeysuckle grows up the side almost to the roof.' Khosa hesitates. 'There was a tree. One of those really big trees, with roots thicker than a man. I don't know what they're called.'

'Trees?' Toru leans out wide for his clothes, fishing in his trousers for his phone. 'I don't know much about trees. Would you know it again if you saw it?'

'I don't know. I think so.'

'Big trees. Local flora.' Toru runs a search, paging thoughtfully. 'That's still not a lot to go on. There's no shortage of trees on the Indian subcontinent.' He pauses on a picture, and turns the phone to face Khosa. 'Baobab? It's a pretty big tree.'

Khosa nods. 'Like that. Taller than the house. It had garlands on it.'

Barton leaves the pool and stands. 'That's not much of a clue.'

'Concentrate.' Toru gestures, and Khosa obediently closes his eyes, weary of it in the face of Barton's disappointment. 'What about your other senses? Not just sight. Smell?'

'Smell?' Khosa purses his lips, his brow furrowing. 'I... think... salt.'

'Salt. There's salt flats in Prakasam. Or maybe the ocean? We need to head to the coast?'

Khosa gives up a moment later. 'I'm sorry, Toru. Trowa. I don't know what I'm missing. I'm not even sure it's real.'

'You tried.' Toru forces himself to smile. 'Who knows. Maybe it will turn out to mean something.'

Barton is staring off into the night when Toru looks for him. 'Yeah,' he says. 'Maybe.'

 

**

 

Toru becomes aware of the pounding at his door at approximately the same time as the pounding in his head. The empty glass of vodka on his bedside table answers for one of those. Toru groans and pushes it onto the carpeted floor. He's never drinking again. It's not worth it.

It takes more effort to drag himself out of bed. He must have had a rough night, because he's ripped the sheets out of their folds, wrapped himself up like a mummy. 'Barton,' he says, 'help me with this,' bending to rip at the duvet that tangles his feet. But when he looks up, Barton's bed is empty. Which might be because it's almost eight. He's overslept. So in addition to being a drunk he's also a fool. Great start.

'Stop knocking,' he says instead, and yanks the door open. 'Oh. Ishaq. Is everything okay?'

'Better than okay,' Khosa tells him, brushing past him and coming in without asking. 'Trowa's finding Dawes and Walker, so you'd best get dressed. Where's your luggage?'

'On the chair. What--' Toru scrapes his hair behind his ears but can't find an elastic. It feels starchy and dry from the pool water last night. 'Is something happening? I thought we weren't moving out until nine.'

'You'll be wanting to influence where we're going.' Khosa opens Toru's bag and finds a clean set of clothes for him, tossing them at Toru. 'Hurry. And you should shave, too. You're starting to get fuzzy.'

Toru rubs his palm over his cheek. 'Are you going to explain at any point?' There may not be time-- he has no idea if there's time or not for a full shower, but he runs the water in the efficiency anyway, shedding his pants behind the curtain and dousing himself with lukewarm spray, giving himself a quick soapy rubdown in all the important spots. 'Barton's involved in this too?'

'Shave,' Khosa reminds him, passing a razor and a mirror through the curtain. 'You know I don't sleep much. I was thinking about our experiment last night. About what I saw-- the bike.'

'Right.' Toru opens his mouth for a swallow of shower water and spits it out, ridding himself of the stale taste. He soaps his chin and props the mirror on the small shelf in the shower. 'You saw a bicycle in both Spain and in India.'

'A bicycle in Spain, yes. But a _bike_ here. A motorbike.'

He nicks himself on the first touch of the razor. Of course. 'Okay. A motorbike.'

'Motorbikes are registered. They have plates.'

Toru elbows open the curtain. 'Did you--'

'I think so,' Khosa agrees triumphantly. 'Enough to run a check on the number. If you can convince Dawes and Walker to pursue it.' He grins, the first time Toru has ever seen him do that. Toru returns it. 'Don't shred your face,' Khosa adds. 'I'll make you a cup of tea. But hurry up. Trowa went to get them almost ten minutes ago.'

Toru is just buttoning his shirt when a knock to his door announces the arrival of the rest of their party. Khosa answers it while Toru scrubs his face of bloody bits of paper from his razor cuts; Khosa nods his approval as he opens the door.

'Morning,' Dawes says, twitching open the curtains as he passes them and sprawling onto Toru's bed. He spots Toru's untouched tea and takes it for himself. 'I take it we're conferencing? We couldn't do that in the lobby where breakfast is?'

Micheko doesn't say anything at all. She leans against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest. She meets Toru's eyes, but blank of all emotion. Even Barton shows more than that, a banked excitement in his tense face as he takes up stance in front of the closed door.

Toru clears his throat. 'This is sort of private,' he replies. He shoves the curtains open the rest of the way, for the breath of air coming through. The fan isn't helping enough, and he's already sweating away the good of his rushed bath. 'We need to tell you something. About Quatre. New information.'

'New information?' Dawes sips his tea. 'You have sources we don't?'

'Well-- not precisely.' He's not prepared enough for this. This is just going to make him look rogue, and it's not a good time for Dawes and Micheko to start mistrusting his judgment more than they already do. 'Ishaq-- has been working on-- the visioning practise,' he stutters, wiping his temple on his sleeve. 'I-- we-- I've been thinking about how Rzhevsky did it. And the possibility that Ishaq could replicate it.'

'Like Mr Winner did,' Micheko says, catching on quickly. And suspiciously. She trades her narrow gaze for Khosa. 'How long have you been working on this?'

'We can play Quiz Show or we can come to the point,' Barton interrupts cooly. 'Your entire pursuit of Newtypes has treated them interchangeably from the beginning, as far as I can tell. Accept the premise and get to the results.'

'The results being that we have a license plate we can pursue,' Toru says, just to get past that. 'But only if we all agree it's worth trying. From my perspective, we're flailing around out here without a lot of help.'

Micheko's mouth opens in what's surely going to be an angry protest, judging by her expression. But Dawes comes to his rescue, shrugging his agreement. 'I'd rather have something than nothing,' he muses. 'License plate, eh. That'll be about the same as the jails. A state-wide registry, unless it's not been properly reported in. Or expired. Or stolen.'

'At best, it's a location,' Toru says. He spreads his hands. 'We need to narrow it down.'

'Ta.' Dawes sets the teacup aside and hauls himself upright. 'I'll call our contact. You have this plate number written-- ah. Thanks, Mr Barton. I'll get this running. Save me a plate at breakfast, someone?'

Micheko follows Dawes to the door, but stays standing there when Dawes heads down the hall. She turns back, with her hand on the latch. She says, 'Playing with fire already got you burnt once, Toru. You need to be careful. Especially bringing Mr Khosa into it.'

Toru tugs at his ponytail. He almost just nods along with her rebuke. But something on his tongue doesn't connect up with his brain, because he doesn't. He says, 'If I was really that much of a liability, I would have been left behind in London or reassigned to Traffic Watch. Sally sent me with you because I'm the one who will take risks. Someone has to.'

'You presume an awful lot, Craft.'

'Maybe. Probably. But I don't think I'm wrong about this.' And because his mouth just doesn't stop when he tells it to, he adds, 'And you can cut me some damn slack. It would be nice to have a friend to talk to, instead of a hostile. I haven't done anything to you.'

Her chin comes up hard, offended. She slams the door as she leaves.

Barton finishes Dawes' tea, taking his spot on the bed, too. He props one of Toru's pillows behind his back. 'It'll take hours to run down a partial license plate,' he says. 'Will we have to go back to the local Preventers' office?'

Toru's head is throbbing and his stomach isn't happy, either. With the brief, ugly confrontation with Micheko or with the fact that the heat is becoming stifling with the sun hitting his room. 'Probably not,' he mutters, and strips out of his useless coat, now that his part in the drama is over. 'They didn't really want us there taking up space. We can wait outside where it's cooler.'

Khosa rinses the empty vodka glass and fills it with water from the sink. Toru drains it, gratefully. 'Sorry,' he mumbles, meaning it to cover rather a lot of things. 'Did you eat yet?'

'No,' Khosa says. 'We should all go while the buffet is still out.'

'Your father always fought with his girlfriend,' Barton says suddenly. He overturns the empty teacup on its saucer. 'Quat always thought he was a tool. Noin had a lot to put up with.'

'Oh.' He's not alert enough to figure out if that's supposed to hurt him, or if it's just Barton making actual conversation. 'Are you... Look, whatever you mean, I'm tired. I don't know and I don't know if I care.'

'It means don't expect her to keep up with you and be angry when she can't,' Khosa tells him quietly. 'They try. But it's part of what happens, when one of you is different.'

He reddens. His fingers feel numb when they wrap about his wallet, awkward when they stuff it into his pocket. 'We can go downstairs. I'm ready.' He has to flex his hand before he can grip the doorknob and turn it. He rubs his throat, rubs his aching eyes, just stands there with them closed for a minute, wondering how he's spent months at this and gotten steadily worse at it. 'If that's true,' he says finally, 'then when we find Quatre, don't you dare make him tell you he's sorry.'

Barton doesn't answer. Toru doesn't look back as he leaves.

 

**

 

'Puneet Sharma,' Micheko reports. 'He registered the bike two years ago. Address given is Ichi-- Icha-- chara-- I can't pronounce this.'

'Ichchapuram,' Khosa says.

'There,' Micheko finishes, magnifying their map to bring up the municipality. 'Population's pretty small. It's on the Bay of Bengali. Farming, rural, forests. Low percentage urbanized. If you're going to hide, it doesn't get much harder to find than this.'

'So who exactly is this Puneet Sharma?' Dawes fans himself with a napkin, leaning back on his lounger. They're a bit of a sight, their entire company on the porch by the pool with all their luggage, checked out of their rooms but still waiting until a decision's been made. 'Is he a Newtype, then?' Dawes asks.

The question, logical as it is, catches Toru off his guard. 'I don't know.' He looks at Khosa, who can only shrug. 'It's possible, I guess. You were focusing on the Flash.'

'Then why wouldn't I have seen Sharma instead of his transportation?' Khosa asks.

Not unreasonable. 'The problem with magic is that it looks impossible until you know the rules,' he says grumpily. 'I get the impression that no-one knows the rules to this.'

'Well, we have a postal. So you get to be right until we get there and find out he's not who he says he is, or he's got no relation to Newtypes at all, or any other disappointing outcome.' Micheko turns off her reader. 'It's a long drive to the coast. We should get started if we want to have any chance of finding accommodation when we get there.'

'That question is a good one,' Toru says to Khosa, as they trundle out to their van. 'If you saw that bike because Sharma is a Newtype, it suggests we could try again with Rzhevsky's technique. Maybe get a little closer.'

'I'm not even sure what I did last night,' Khosa admits, as he follows Toru up the step and into the cab. They take the back row of the van, with Barton already established in the middle, and looking keenly interested in their murmured conversation. Dawes is in the driver's seat already setting the GPS, with Micheko's aid. If they hear, they don't turn.

'It can't hurt, if you're willing.' Toru reaches over the bench to dig in his back, coming up with the complimentary sleep packet that was left for all guests by the hotel. It has an eye mask in it. 'We'll pretend you're resting. Or, hell. You can really rest, if you want.'

Khosa smiles wanly. 'I'll try. Why not? You're right, after all. The sooner we find Quatre-- well.'

'Yeah.' Toru chews at the inside of his cheek as he unties the mesh bag around the eye mask. 'Um, about that-- don't-- don't worry too much, okay? You shouldn't.'

'So long as I cooperate.' Khosa takes the mask, and slips it on. 'Don't feel badly, Toru. Preventers are no worse than anyone else with an agenda.'

'All right back there?' Dawes calls, as he puts the van in gear.

'Yeah,' Toru answers.

Mid-morning traffic is light enough, a mix of little compact cars and cyclists and even buggies drawn by pedaling men. Their rental van doesn't stand out, except that it rides every bump and pothole with a groaning jostle and even rolled-down windows don't alleviate the oven-like conditions inside. Toru opens his collar and rolls up his sleeves. Barton's in just a tee and shorts, and Toru envies his ability to be casual. Or at least envies Micheko and Dawes, who have an AC up front. It's not reaching the back.

Barton slings an arm over the back of his bench and twists to face Toru. He says, 'What happens if Heero is there.'

'What happens?'

'Arrest?' Barton waits only long enough for Toru to grimace. 'You won't be able to avoid it forever. Quat cooperates because he's smart enough to game the system from the inside. Ishaq cooperates because the alternative is worse. Heero won't give you alternatives.'

'It may not come to that. It may depend entirely on Quatre. We don't know if they've come to any kind of agreement.'

'I can't imagine an agreement that ends with Heero voluntarily leaving whatever kind of life he has here after twenty years.' They hit what feels like a crater, the van dipping and then bouncing, and Toru grits his teeth. 'And,' Barton says then, 'if he's any kind of sane, or the wrong kind of insane, he might have spent the last twenty years booby-trapping himself a fortress.'

That's all too easy to imagine. 'If anyone could talk him down from that, it would be Quatre. Or you.'

'I wouldn't plan on that.'

Toru glances sideways at Khosa, who sits with his head bowed and swaying with the motion of the van. 'There's no way of knowing what we're walking into.'

'Not good enough,' Barton says relentlessly. 'You thought that with Ishaq and you ended out dragging him across the globe. You know enough about Newtypes now. Anticipate. Plan.'

Toru puts an elbow on Barton's bench and leans in, lowering his voice. 'Quatre said Yuy's ability was something like seeing all the steps that make impossible things possible. If that's true, then Yuy's going to instantly know what to do about us. We'll be reacting, not anticipating.'

'And?'

'And nothing. Quatre reads minds, Yuy reads your intentions. Ishaq reads the future, in his way. That's the point of the Newtypes. To be ahead of everyone else. It may not be pretty, but maybe the smartest thing we can do is just not be wedded to a plan we can't change.' Toru shrugs and leans back. '”Alert, alert; yet relax, relax.”'

'What's that?'

'Machig Labdrön. She was a Tibetan yogini.' Toru checks on Khosa, and finds him breathing deeply and evenly. 'You should read more,' he says, and decides Khosa's got the right idea. It's been weeks since he's meditated just for personal peace. And with a long car ride ahead, it's no time like the present.

 

**

 

'Toru.'

He wakes with a start. The van isn't moving. Dawes is right next to him, on the other side of the window. They're at a petrol station. Filling the tank. It's got to be at least midnight, by the look of it. Toru swallows on a dry throat and gingerly rolls his head. His neck cracks in both directions.

'Toru,' Khosa whispers. 'I think we're getting closer.'

Toru rubs sand out of his eyes and straightens in his seat. He's not sure when his meditation became an unplanned nap, but the scenery has altered considerably. The plains have become hills, visible in the distance as grey outlines against the dark sky, lit here and there with jewel-like lamps of homes and temples. They're in some kind of rural place, the road only two lanes a hundred feet away, lined by low shrubs and tall coconut trees. There's a goat hitched to a post at the station house, a little pale-hided thing with horns. An brown old man, maybe the goat's owner, sits in a patch of light beside him, swarmed with mosquitos or gnats that he utterly ignores.

'Closer to what?' Toru asks, just as Barton appears at the open passenger door and climbs in. Khosa and Toru both get cold drinks in glass bottles. Khosa gets a bag of cashew nuts, too.

'It's not the Flash, exactly,' Khosa whispers. 'But I feel like we're near.'

'To a Newtype?' Toru pops the cap off his drink and sips. It tastes awkwardly like roses, but it's wet, and that's all that matters. 'Can you see them? Picture them at all? Or even more about the bike or that house? Where are we?'

'Kaviti,' Micheko informs him, as she climbs back into the van. 'You've been asleep for a couple of hours.'

'Sorry.' Toru drains his rose drink and tucks the bottle under the bench. 'Um, any thought to reaching out to the locals again? Checking in? We might be able to get an updated address on the bike owner. Um, Shamer.'

'Sharma.' Micheko pulls down her vanity mirror to peer back at him. 'You feeling okay? Maybe you should stretch a little.'

That's probably the nicest thing Micheko's said since Rzhevsky died, but Khosa and Barton are both urging him on silently, and he's having trouble coming up with a good reason to delay things. 'Um,' he says. 'I'm okay. Just been thinking-- you know, a two-year-old address is probably kind of rubbishy. We're in the right district at least. Would be worth checking in again. Efficiency.'

Micheko checks her phone for the time. 'Offices will be closed. We'll be lucky if there's anyone on staff to check us in at the hostel in Ich-- that place.'

'Ichcharpuram,' Khosa supplies again.

Toru itches his scalp through his ponytail. He can't see the GPS clearly, but a quick punch at his phone indicates they're only a few minutes out of their destination. It won't be too difficult to get back to Kaviti, if this is the source of-- whatever feeling Khosa is having. He hates to give up a lead. That feeling may not be there when they come back in the morning. If they can manage to get back without Dawes and Micheko dogging their heels.

The hostel is more like the barracks back home in Brussels than a hotel, but it's the only place in town that can accommodate their entire party. Toru bunks with Barton, Dawes with Khosa; Micheko gets her own, and climbs to the top, turning away from the rest of them toward a wall. If the other two agents suspect anything, he can't tell. Khosa sits propped up by limp pillows on his bunk, watching Toru; Toru watches him right back, wondering, worrying. Biting his tongue every time he starts to speak. There's no actual reason not to tell Dawes and Micheko. It's actually irresponsible not to. And yet-- and yet. Every time he starts to say it, he doesn't.

Breakfast comes at the awful hour of six, some kind of rice-tasting pancake with coconut chutney. Toru eats four of them, one for each hour of fruitless staring he'd accomplished on his lumpy mattress, and when Barton grimaces and shoves his plate over, Toru eats his portion too, which more or less gives him the energy to put on his mildest expression of absolutely no trouble here, no sir, and say, 'Well, barring any other suggestions, how about we split up?'

Micheko looks up from brushing her hair. The shower facilities had been sub-par, at best, and she's the only one who chose to use them, but she looks marginally better off for it. 'Split up?' she repeats. 'Why?'

'Cover more ground.' The tray of tea cups are none too clean, but he drinks his sugared tea anyway. 'Unless we're all eager to stay here longer than necessary.'

Dawes yawns a face-splitting agreement. 'So-oh,' he exhales. 'A few of us to follow up on the postal, check it out, and the rest on the grid pattern, searching for Winner?'

'If you don't mind, Ishaq.'

'I don't mind,' Khosa murmurs.

'I can go with you,' Barton says.

'No,' Toru interrupts. 'I think each group needs someone with the ability to find Quatre. You would recognise him in a crowd when we might not. Ishaq would feel the Flash.'

'Toru,' Micheko says, and motions with her head. Toru grabs one last pancake off the tray and follows her up the row of bunks to the window at the far end of the suite. 'It's not just the civvies who should divide up.'

Toru nods with his most professional game face. 'We need to keep our numbers even. Whoever nets Quatre is going to have him to deal with in addition to whoever they're dragging around all day.'

'Back in London you said you thought Barton might try to make a run with Quatre.'

It's been barely three weeks but he's already forgot he said that. 'Uh, yeah.' He pulls at his shirt where it's sticking to sweaty skin. 'I don't know. I think he'd like to.'

'Then we should have more agents on Barton. Khosa's not as high a risk.'

'Okay. Yeah. I don't disagree with that logic.'

'And you shouldn't be one of them.'

It's all in line with what he was hoping for, but something about the way she says it makes him stop. 'Should I ask why,' he says slowly.

She brushes her damp hair off her forehead. She's not wearing any makeup yet, but her skin is as smooth and flawless as if she were. It makes him angry, suddenly, that looking at her makes him think about how beautiful she is, not how it increasingly feels like he's never known anything real about her at all.

'You know, forget it,' he says, and leaves her standing there.

 

**

 

Getting out of Ichchapuram is a longer walk on foot than it had seemed driving in the night before, and Toru itches at every minute of lost time. They may not have a second chance at this, and he wants to chase down this not-quite-Flash before Micheko decides he's so suspicious he needs to be minded as closely as Barton.

Ichchapuram isn't quite a poor town, but it's old and run-down. There's trash in the streets, graffiti on the concrete and rusted aluminium siding that form most of the buildings. Women in brightly patterned saris and dust-covered sandals walk the dirt roads with heavy canvas bags balanced on their heads, and men in short-sleeved cotton button-downs ride squeaking bicycles through the puddles by the kerbs. Just past the Metro Station they pass a man selling ice cream and waters from the back of a pick-up truck, and Toru parts with some of his cash to buy two bottles.

'Salt,' Toru observes at last, as the road they're following from the Station connects back up to the NH-5. 'We're probably only a couple of miles from the coast. Ishaq?'

Khosa only shakes his head. 'This is new for me,' he says. 'I've been a Newtype for half of my life and this is the first time I've encountered anything that-- feels-- this way.'

'Then I guess the only way to figure out what it is is to find it.'

In about twenty minutes they pass the petrol filling station where they topped off the night previous; the old man is still there, in the same exact spot, along with his goat. 'I don't... right?' Khosa hazards, and Toru strikes a path away from the motorway, into the fields beyond the road. As the sun rises overhead they walk through plots of green rice stalks that slowly become plots dotted with trees, the occasional coconut with broad palms becoming shade trees with wide arms blocking out the harsh heat. Toru finally cools enough to let his hair loose. Khosa rolls up his trousers to mid-calf and carries his shoes in his hand.

'I think there's a house ahead,' Toru observes, when he's realising that the gentle roar he hears is the water, getting nearer. 'Do you see that?' He doesn't get an answer, and touches very carefully, just Khosa's shoulder, over his shirt. 'Hey, you all right? Too hot?'

Khosa starts. 'Oh. Toru.'

'Still me. You all right?'

'I...' Khosa's eyes are locked straight ahead. 'Something's there.'

'A building of some kind. It looks big.' Toru frees his phone from his pocket and runs a search. 'It's not showing up on the map. I might have the coordinates wrong.'

'No, I mean...' Khosa nods, dazed, as Toru looks up. 'Something's there.'

'That feeling?'

Khosa never answers. He doesn't have to. Toru hears a shriek, and goes reaching for his gun, holstered at his ankle. But it's only a second to comprehend what he's hearing. Laughter, not fear. A child.

Who comes running through the trees, a little girl only five or six years old, dark hair flying in a cloud behind her as she skips. She has a little pet with her, that's the source of amusement, a little barking dog, bounding ahead of her.

And she's glowing.

Toru stops in his tracks, his hand still wrapped around his gun. She's _glowing_.

Khosa inhales sharply beside him, swaying. 'He's here,' he whispers. 'A Newtype.'

'The girl?'

'The girl?' Khosa blinks at him. 'Of course not. She's only--'

Near enough to spot them. The girl slows, stills. Toru swallows hard.

'Darling, come back in,' a man's voice calls. There's someone else in the trees. Toru has to open his mouth to breathe, wrench his eyes up from the girl. He renews his grip on the gun, touches his pointer finger to the trigger, but keeps it low.

And then a blond head emerges, a sight so familiar that Toru can't help a shiver of relief.

'Ah,' Winner says, as he lifts the girl to his hip. 'I've been wondering when you'd get here. You're not really planning to shoot me, Toru? I thought you had better manners.'

His laugh sounds shaky to his own ears, and maybe not terrifically sane, just now. 'I should,' he retorts, even as he thumbs the safety on. 'Just for pissing me off. I--' He tries to say more, but his throat is tight. He shakes his head.

Winner closes the distance between them. His hand on Toru's shoulder is warm, pulling him into a half-embrace that lasts just long enough for Toru to get control of himself, and return it. The little girl in Winner's arms sits docile through it, though her tiny fingers connect with his shirt, twisting a pearl button. She has bright blue eyes, and soft skin, when he takes her hand.

'Hullo,' Winner says simply.

'Hi.' Toru laughs again, and gives up. Just gives up. 'Hi,' he says, and what the hell, anyway.


	19. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This place existed as long ago as 199. His parents hadn't joined the Haddad Rebellion until years later. They could have been here. Safe. He could have been here, with them._

'I don't know if you remember me,' Khosa says shyly.

'Of course.' Winner must remember enough not to touch, but his head dips in warm acknowledgement. 'You're a long way from home, Mr Khosa. It must be quite a story.'

'Yes,' Toru says, crouching to tuck his gun back into its holster. The little dog, a spaniel with silky long ears, sniffs his shoes and circles back to Winner. 'I'm more interested in your story, though. The hair doesn't work, by the way. You look more like you than ever before.'

Winner touches his head, now sheared of his well-groomed locks to a golden fuzz. 'It seemed prudent to adopt at least a small effort at disguise. The beard's only just come in, but it itches horribly.' He looks past Toru, to the trees beyond them. 'Where are the others? Agent Walker?'

'Back in Ichchapuram.' Toru hesitates, knowing Winner will read it off him if he can't hide it, and as soon as he thinks of it there's no thinking of anything else. 'Barton's with us,' he says.

Winner stills. 'Ah,' he replies at last, strained. 'That is-- surprising.'

'I'm not entirely sure you left us a lot of choice.' He takes a deep breath. 'Look, speaking of choice. We need to talk about what happens now.'

'Yes, we very much do.' Winner lets the little girl back to her feet. 'Tell them it's time,' he instructs her, and she hurries back the way she came. 'We've been waiting for you,' he adds.

'How? I mean, how did you know we were coming? Aside from expecting us to follow you.'

'I did expect that.' Winner gestures for them to follow, and they fall into step, Winner between he and Khosa. 'You spoke to the Fishers?'

'Yes.' It feels like forever ago. 'We lost the lead after that. We decided to try and find-- well, Ishaq. A Newtype who might have a way to find you beyond the usual methods. We...'

Winner is watching him sidelong. He'd almost forgot this, too, that look Winner gets when he's reading Toru. This time, he lets it happen. It's too much to say aloud, too raw still. When Winner looks away with a grim, downcast sigh, Toru can't say anything in his own defence. He's the one who made it all happen.

'We all do things we regret,' Winner murmurs. 'For your sake, I wish you hadn't.'

'You asked me not to kill him.' Toru scrubs his hair out of his eyes as ocean-scented wind tosses it in his face. 'I'm sorry.'

'You didn't kill him. He died.' Winner stops walking when that house Toru had spied earlier comes into view. 'And he gave you what you needed.'

'Koh-i-Noor.' Toru bites his lip. 'We never found out for sure what that is. Is it Heero Yuy?'

'You know more than you think you do.' Winner faces them both, but he's looking at Khosa. 'You feel it. The shield.'

'Yes!' Khosa shakes his head. 'It's like it's both calling and pushing away. I can hardly look at it.'

'And you don't feel it,' Winner says, turning his eyes to Toru.

'Feel what?'

'The girl,' Winner says. 'Her name is Mari Elise Yuy.'

'Mari-- Yuy.' Toru comprehends that in a jump, too much almost in that leap. 'She's got to be-- that means he's alive, or he was at least five years ago.'

'Yes.'

'He's here.'

'Yes,' Winner says. 'But you're going to see more than that when we go inside. I won't ask you to keep it from your fellow agents. But I do ask that you see first, and ask your questions first, and think about it first. This place is... it's extraordinary. So, please. If I can ask that of you, please.'

If he doesn't check in with the others by mid-day at the latest they'll start to look for him. He thinks that and a thousand other things, all of which amount to problems without immediate solutions, except for one. Answers. He's about to get them, but only if he keeps walking. If he doesn't, he'll lose this chance. His heart has that figured out, and it's hammering so hard his chest feels weak. He can barely manage a nod.

The trees stop in a kind of ring around the house by the water. It's a big house, a sprawling ranch with white-washed walls and shuttered windows, sloping roofs of tiles. And honeysuckle, just as Khosa had seen. It can't be native here, but it's growing all the same, climbing the walls like a living coat of yellow flowers, swaying and whispering in the breeze off the ocean.

Khosa shudders all over as they pass the ring of trees into open ground, but when they're through he stands straighter. 'It's gone,' he observes.

'Still there,' Winner corrects. 'But for others, now, and not you. This place has been a well-kept secret for a very long time. If people like Ivan Rzhevsky had been able to find it, it would have been disastrous. Though I wonder if even he might have been changed by it.'

'There' some kind of shield here, you said? A shield only Newtypes can feel?' Toru is staring around, trying to catalogue everything he's seeing. A garden growing vegetables. Fruit trees, all laden with ripe offerings of mango and jack and papaya and banana. It's a big place, big enough for-- that's what he's realising-- big enough for multiple families. Maybe more. And when they pass between the outer buildings into the inner courtyard, that's what he sees. At least a dozen people, fifteen, all sitting out for a morning meal at a big table, chatting and laughing and-- and every third one is glowing.

He has to stop walking to breathe, he can't do both at once. 'Quatre,' he tries to say, getting it out in a weird squeak.

'Yes.' Winner nods, his eyes on Toru's face. 'You've almost guessed it. You know why you can see them like that.'

'I don't-- I've never seen-- just when someone was using their-- their ability.' Bewildered, he shakes his head, rubs his eyes, but they're all still glowing faint gold when he looks again. 'How?'

'Oddly, Rzhevsky was right about this much.' Winner gestures about him. 'Everyone here is a Newtype or a child of Newtypes. Like you. There's been a reason all along, Toru, why you can see Newtypes using their ability. They used to call Newtypes the next step in human evolution. A new kind of humanity. But it wasn't us. It was you. We're just some half-step necessary to get us to you.'

The little girl is there now, watching him from the lap of a pretty blonde woman, another one who glows. Beside her is a slim dark-haired girl Toru's age, and there's a man who looks thirty or so who glows, and there's a baby in a bassinet on the edge of the big table who glows. God. An Indian woman in a blue sari who's shaping a basket out of fronds glows, and she fondly chides a teenager with a clubfoot who lounges in the grass, playing with the dog. And the others, they're Newtypes? He left his case reader in the luggage in the van, but it's only a fleeting thought, the idea of comparing Rzhevsky's list of Newtypes he'd never got to against the people gathered here. Every thought is fleeting, failing to connect. Part of him knows he's in shock. Part of him knows he's in awe.

The blonde woman holding Mari Yuy rises from the table. She's an elegant lady, or gives that impression, somehow, though she's only dressed in a simple cotton frock and straw hat, her long hair twisted in a thick chignon to the side. 'Toru Craft, Ishaq Khosa,' Winner is saying formally, 'it is my pleasure to introduce Sylia Noventa.'

Toru is presented with a hand. He presses it carefully, all the while feeling he should be bending to kiss it instead. Sylvia Noventa smiles slyly, as if she guesses what he's thinking. When he blushes, she laughs.

'Welcome to Koh-i-Noor,' she says. 'Quatre has been very excited for us to meet you.'

'Ma'am. The, uh, the pleasure is mine. Ours.'

'Sylvia Noventa?' Toru must not be the only one struggling with all these revelations; Khosa is wide-eyed, too. 'The daughter of Field Marshal Noventa?'

The name clicks as soon as Khosa says it. Noventa. Murdered at New Edwards by the Gundam Pilots, deceived by Treize Khushrenada as he launched his coup, Order of the Zodiac against the ageing, hapless United Earth Sphere Alliance. 'But your father couldn't have been a Newtype,' Toru blurts.

'No,' Sylvia agrees, her smile now including Winner, who looks sadly away. 'But my mother was. One of the first Newtypes, as a matter of fact.'

Holy-- God. There wasn't a Noventa in Rzhevsky's database of kills. Unless it was classified? It would have been, immediately, as soon as anyone saw that name. 'Is she... is she here?' he asks, already dreading it.

'She passed away many years ago,' Winner informs him quietly, knowing the direction of his thoughts. 'Not long after her husband.'

Of natural causes, he thinks that means. Winner nods, and Toru swallows hard in relief. That would have been too much bad news to bring to a place like this.

'Wounds of the past,' Sylvia says, hugging the child in her arms close for a moment. When the little girl squirms, Sylvia lets her go with a sigh, sending her back to the table with a gentle swat to the behind. 'Everyone here bears some kind of scar. You must have your own stories. I'd like to hear them, if you're willing to tell.'

'This place... Koh-i-Noor.' Khosa passes his hand over his eyes. 'It's almost too much. To believe a place like this can exist.'

'It hasn't been easy.' She leads them to a door, and they go inside one of the buildings, into a sitting room of some kind, with wicker couches and bright rugs on the wooden floors, overhead fans wafting down flower-scented air. 'The story goes back to my mother, I suppose,' she says, seating herself on a couch. Khosa and Winner both take chairs, and Toru, the last one in, hesitates before gingerly seating himself beside the lady, with as much respectful cushion between them as possible. Up close, he can see small lines beside her mouth, a hint of silver in her hair, as she removes her hat and pins, and she seems less glamourous than just pleasant and normal-- but that in itself seems somehow marvellous, all things considered. He finds himself blinking too much, his mouth too dry. When she smiles at him, he twitches his mouth up instinctively, too jagged to be a smile in return.

'We knew the original Newtype programme within the Alliance began in the 170s,' Winner fills in, low-voiced. 'That there were several dozen applicants. We've-- met-- a Newtype who participated in that programme.'

'Quatre's told me what's happened.' She falls silent for a moment, and Toru understands it as a grief. 'Too many lost,' she says at last. 'And yet I can't be surprised. From all I've ever learnt about my father's compatriots, there were too many factions too devoted to winning at all costs. The Newtype programme reflected that. They were creating something wondrous, and disregarding all human cost in the process.

'My mother was one of the first recruits.' Sylvia reaches to a side table, to pick up a small frame. She passes it to Toru beside her. It's a picture, of a woman who looks much like her daughter does now, pretty in a way that suggests luminosity until you look closer. Toru chooses not to.

'She was beautiful,' he says, and hands the frame to Khosa.

Sylvia smiles at him. 'Thank you. I always thought so. And so did my father. When he found out about the programme, he arranged to secretly inspect it. He met my mother. He described it as love at first sight. He was something of a womaniser, so love might have been too strong a word for it, but my mother found him quite handsome as well. They had an affair, and that turned into a secret marriage. When the Newtype programme went into full production, my father tried to protect my mother by going public with their relationship. She became Lady Noventa, with a new name, a new past.'

'But the same thing happened to Lady Noventa that happened to all Newtypes,' Winner says. He gets the frame last, though Toru thinks from the way he holds it that he's seen it before. He sighs over it, and sets it back in its spot on the table amongst the other pictures there. 'She was troubled. Unstable.'

'My father called them her “dark moons”,' Sylvia murmurs. 'Days, sometimes weeks, when she couldn't leave her bed. She'd weep for hours. As a child I never understood it. When she was happy she could light a room. When she was sad, no-one could bear it. Eventually my father banned me from seeing her in her dark moons.'

'It's a kind of reverse empathy,' Winner explains. 'Instead of taking in the feelings of others, she was influencing you. Anyone near her was subject to her moods. She couldn't control it, though I'm sure she desperately wanted to.'

'I didn't know anything of Newtypes until after New Edwards.' Sylvia leans across the floor to take Winner's hand when he looks away. 'One day you'll let me forgive you,' she tells him. 'Heero has.'

'Heero's had longer to think about it,' Winner replies drily, though he does raise her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. 'But tell your story. They need to hear it.'

Sylvia has a sigh of her own, leaning back against the red cushions. 'At New Edwards, of course, Oz changed everything. My father was killed. My family's fortunes were uncertain, and our friends all but vanished. We retreated to Father's estate, Château de Chambord, but no-one knew for sure if there would be reprisals against the families of Alliance officers. We were making plans to flee. I had sneaked out to visit Father's grave, and there was a boy there... there was a boy there, with a gun, asking me to kill him. And he was glowing.'

Toru sits forward. Khosa's the one who responds, though. 'Glowing,' he says, glancing at Toru.

'Yes.' Sylvia nods. 'I see you know what I mean. I had never seen it before. It was frightening. Of course all of it was frightening.' She laughs. 'It seems like theatre of the absurd now. At the time I thought-- I hardly know what I thought. He told me who he was. Heero Yuy. I knew that name-- all schoolchildren that age knew that name, but I knew he had been assassinated in the colonies for advocating for separatism. A boy with _that_ name, that name, had come to Earth in a Gundam and killed my father. And now came to offer me his life in recompense. I very nearly took it. But I didn't, and we parted.'

'What did you make of the glow?' Toru is compelled to ask. 'Did you know he was a Newtype?'

'How could I?' she asks. 'No, I didn't know anything about it. My parents had sheltered me and I didn't know what my own mother was until later. At the time, I assumed I was distraught, that it had been a trick of the light... any number of things but that I had seen something beyond the natural. It didn't make sense to me until three years later.'

'Three years later?' Khosa repeats. 'That would have been-- 198? 199?'

'Christmas Eve of 199. It seems cliché to say it this way, but it was a dark and stormy night.' She meets Winner's eyes, and both smile sadly. 'I couldn't sleep. I kept feeling something odd, something driving me to up and moving. Drawing me outside. I decided at last to bring flowers to my father's grave. To put ghosts to rest, as it were. I went outside, alone, in the rain, and that was where I found him. Heero Yuy, in the same spot where we'd met before. I was just in time to watch him shoot himself in the head.'

Toru feels a physical jolt at that. 'But-- he's here, you said. The little girl. He must have lived.'

'Yes. I rushed back inside and called for help. He'd survived the bullet.' Sylvia inhales deeply. 'That part of it is his story. But the rest of it, the good that came of it, is this place. Koh-i-Noor. We didn't have love at first sight, you see. But we had time. And we had help from a woman who understood more than we did about Newtypes. My mother. She and Father had bought this place for their honeymoon. She sent us here, to be safe from the world, to make a life in a place where we could be happy. And it was a greater gift than we could ever have imagined. Others have found us, over the years. People who needed shelter, needed a place to recover themselves. To not be alone with this burden.'

'Yes,' Khosa whispers. 'Yes, I see.'

'But the children.' Toru tries to get it out in a rush, but the words die even as he forms them. 'You're... we're...' The soft gold aura that just barely shimmers around her, like sunlight from the window behind her. He tries to swallow, and can't. 'We're the same, then,' he says. 'My parents. They were Newtypes.'

'So Quatre told me,' Sylvia admits. 'He's been eager for you to arrive.'

'You have?' Toru manages a better smile this time. 'Even knowing what I'd bring with me.'

'I didn't know about Ishaq.' Winner includes both of them in an indulgent gaze. 'But this place is the answer to everything you've been afraid of. It's the best possible answer-- that you needn't be afraid of it at all.'

'But you said that before. That you knew I was coming. And you weren't surprised today. How?'

'You don't know? You're the one who called me.'

'Called you? I don't-- I don't know what you mean.'

'Twice, in fact. Two weeks ago, and the day before last.'

Day before yesterday. The pool. He'd thought he'd seen Winner, and he'd called out, or thought he had. And two weeks ago is Rzhevsky, in London, when he'd touched Rzhevsky in the pool, and been pulled into whatever vision Rzhevsky was having, and he'd thought-- 'That was real,' he says weakly. 'This is--'

'And I suspect you can do quite a lot more than that.'

'No.' Toru shakes his head. 'No. Listen. I just-- I can't...'

'You're getting ahead of him.' Sylvia stands. 'You need time to think about things, I believe. Tea? Why don't you wander about, see the place, both of you? I'll find you with the tea when it's ready.'

Winner leaves obediently, with a hand to Toru's shoulder. Khosa follows them out, and with the soft snick of a door closing Toru is alone. He rubs his face with both hands, scratches his scalp thoroughly and pulls his hair back into a tail, grips it tight enough to sting. This is-- too much. Insanity. And yet-- he utterly believes it.

The chaos in his head translates quickly to motion in his feet. He has to be moving, or he'll go nuts. He shoves upright, takes the door back outside. The picnic is still ongoing, though the population has changed a little. He hesitates, and decides to keep going. The courtyard has an open verandah, and he walks in the opposite direction of the people, skirting behind columns and potted palms. He stops, when he notices what he's overlooking. He'd thought it was part of the building. It's the baobab. The tree Khosa had envisioned. There are flower garlands hanging from the lowest branches, and there are names carved into the huge trunk, hearts and crosses. The tall branches stretch up high over the house, like protective arms reaching to hug it close.

He goes room to room, seeing without really taking any of it in. There's bedrooms, a big central gathering place with couches and pillows scattered on the floor, games like draughts and backgammon left in various states of play on the thick worn rugs. An airy, old-fashioned kitchen, with curtains blowing at the windows and rice soaking in pots in the sink, fragrant spices in bowls laid out for work. It's a home, a place for living, enjoying.

He finds the steps out to the dock by accident, choosing doors at random. It's a grassy path to the water, around the side of the house. He can hear people, but they're muted. The beach is a broad sandy view, uninterrupted by development as far as he can see. There's a lone fisherman, perhaps a thousand feet out from the house. One of the Newtypes? Toru shades his eyes, but he can't see a glow. He shoves his hands into his pockets.

The pier is well-repaired. The wooden slats are mixed, faded old boards with newer replacements, but it's sturdy, broad enough for two men abreast. He walks to the end of it, crouches there, his arms wrapped about his knees. This near, the sound of the water is loud, the lapping noise against the dock, the roar of the waves out in the bay. He closes his eyes to let it drown him out.

This place existed as long ago as 199. His parents hadn't joined the Haddad Rebellion until years later. They could have been here. Safe. He could have been here, with them.

He tries to shut it down as soon as he thinks it. But the hurt is swift, slicing deep. He holds his breath until the stinging in his eyes goes away. He has to wipe them on his shirt sleeve. It's not that his life has been bad. It hasn't been.

'Excuse me? Hello?'

He falls to one knee trying to get up, balances himself with a hand on the slats. 'Yes. I'm sorry?'

It's the girl his age, carrying a cup. 'Tea,' she says, bringing it to him. Unasked, she sits beside him, tucking her bare feet under her. Her hair is thick and luxuriously black, long strands fluttering over her slim round shoulder in the breeze off the water. 'It's a good view, isn't it,' she says.

'Um. Yeah. Pretty.' He takes the tea, just to occupy his hands. It's a little spicy, milky and sweet. He sips it twice, and says, 'Um, do I-- never mind.'

She looks at him curiously. Her eyes are blue, too, like the little girl. Maybe they're related. 'Do you what?' she asks.

He tugs at his ponytail. 'Do I glow?'

Her teeth bite down in her lower lip, to prevent a smile. 'Yes,' she answers. 'It's new for you, isn't it.'

He can only nod. He wraps both of his hands around the tea, gripping hard.

'Do you have a name?' she asks eventually.

'Sorry. Toru.' He frees a hand to offer it, and they shake. 'Toru, um. Craft.'

'Welcome, Toru Um Craft.' Her smile is teasing, and it's oddly relaxing. 'I'm Sun.'

'Is that Japanese?' he asks, thinking that explains her colouring, the shape of her eyes, even if they are blue.

'No.' Sun scrunches her nose, leaning away from him. 'My father... oh, it's an old story. Silly story. When I was born, my mother told my father to name me after his favourite thing on Earth. He said the sunrise. That's my name, technically. Sunrise. Kind of horrible.'

Toru grins. 'I know from terrible names. Mine's actually Thorulf.'

'Yuck. You win.'

'I always win.' He takes a deep cleansing breath and releases it. 'When did you come here? Where did you come from?'

'I was born here.' Sun nods out at the bay. 'Been looking at that view all my life. You? You're the one Quatre's been waiting for?'

'So I gather.'

'You planning on using that?'

His gun. Sitting cross-legged, the holster is visible. And reminds him of the world outside this place. 'No,' he says quietly. 'I'm a Preventer. It's just part of the package.'

'What's a Preventer?'

'You don't know?' It's his turn to look curiously. 'We're the Armoured Defence Unit of the Earth Sphere United Nations. We're chartered to prevent armed conflicts from escalating.'

'You fly Gundams?'

'No-one flies Gundams. There are no Gundams, anymore. But there are mobile suits. Though I'm not a pilot. I'm a ground agent.' He cocks his head at her, wondering. 'You don't get a lot of news of the outside, I guess.'

'Not much.' Sun picks at a splinter in the slats, her hair falling to cover her face. 'We're not ignorant here. But I think a lot of people who come here would rather forget than remember.'

'So you've never left here?'

Her shoulders heave. She lifts her head high, to stare out at the water. 'No,' she says.

He doesn't know what to say to that. At any rate, he's spared an answer. There's footsteps on the pier. Toru turns, and scrambles to his feet.

'Papa,' Sun says. She rises, rather more gracefully. 'Would you like a tea, too?'

'Thank you,' Heero Yuy replies. His voice doesn't sound like thunder or the scream of a beam cannon or any of the myths Toru's heard in his career, but Toru gets a shiver nonetheless. This man is a living legend, and he's standing there wearing waders and carrying a string of fish. Sun takes those with her when she goes, leaving Toru with a little wave that does absolutely nothing to quell Toru's queasy feeling that being left alone with this man might be the thing that puts him over the edge. Papa.

'Sir,' Toru says. He tries to wet his lips. 'I'm--'

'I know who you are.' Yuy comes to the end of the pier and takes the seat his daughter just vacated, easing down like a man with sore joints. Toru sits more slowly still, unsure if he's actually invited. 'You look like your parents.'

'I guess you'd know.' Yuy eyes him. 'Sorry,' Toru says, small-voiced. 'I wasn't trying to be smart. Just-- you actually knew them. I don't really remember them.'

Yuy makes an accepting sort of noise at that, and then doesn't add anything new. Toru opens his mouth, and shuts it tight. This is worse than meeting Winner for the first time. Winner talked.

Winner. 'You never tried to bring him here,' he says.

Yuy glances at him. 'Your father?'

'Quatre.'

Yuy's head inclines slowly. 'He had Trowa.'

'You don't know anything about it. Have you even asked him? Or is he just too happy to see you to tell you the truth?'

'You're upset.'

'You're damn right.' He is, a confusing upswelling of scepticism and resentment and nerves and powerlessness. His hands feel numb. 'He's been living like a recluse. Barton abandoned him decades ago and he thinks he's crazy and one day he will be. He sleeps in bathtubs because he can't bear to hear people's minds all night. He—'

'Maybe I should have tried to find him.' Yuy shifts, lifting a hand. Toru clamps down on his jaws, but Yuy's just lifting his own hair, where it lays long over his ear. There's a long white scar there, and when he faces Toru head-on next, Toru can see that one eye doesn't focus the same as the other. He's blind on the side with the scar. Where he shot himself, that day by Noventa's grave.

'I couldn't shut it off.' Yuy lets his hair fall. 'And I couldn't die. I tried. That's what it did for me-- it kept me alive when any other man would have died, but when that was all I wanted, it turned my hand, every time. Finally I had the idea that I might succeed if all I were trying to do were alter it. Compromise it. But I still don't know if it would have worked if Sylvie hadn't shown up when she did.'

'Sylvia Noventa?' Toru tugs at his ponytail. 'Do you think... do you think it's because she's a child of a Newtype?'

'I don't know.' Yuy's shoulder lifts and falls in a shrug. 'I know Quatre has ideas. He always did. More than me. He'll want to talk with you about it.'

Toru would want to talk with him. When he had enough brain power to put to all of it. 'Can I ask you? I don't want to pry. But-- your injury--'

'Did it work?'

'Yeah.'

'Don't flirt with my daughter,' Yuy says, and hauls himself to his feet.

 

**

 

Noon comes and goes. Toru watches the digital numbers flick by on his phone, and starts and deletes three messages to Micheko. He doesn't send any of them.

He watches the preparations for luncheon without trying to involve himself. The girl, Sun, watches him back, sometimes, and he doesn't know what to make of that. Heero Yuy ignores him entirely, which is probably for the best.

When the food starts coming out on big platters to the tables in the courtyard, Toru steps back. No-one seems to notice him leaving. He only feels like he can breathe once the house is behind him. Not even then. Thinking is even harder. Nothing connects.

He reaches the spot where they first encountered the little girl and her dog. So there's some kind of shield. And Khosa can feel it, but not him. He steps over the spot again and again, walks the border of it for at least a thousand feet, and still feels nothing. The air quality is exactly the same, the sun, the sounds of the trees and insects and ocean nearby. It's far enough from the house that he doesn't really hear anything from there, but that can hardly count as a shield.

He's sure of one thing at least. Nothing is registering on his phone at these GPS coordinates. That's one precaution of the usual kind, at least. If Dawes and Micheko are already looking for them, they won't have any direct evidence of a domicile to come raiding. Only if the locals know there's anything out here. Probably they do. Someone has to buy groceries, petrol. The old man at the filling station will remember that Toru and Khosa passed this way. Some kind of psychic shield is only as much protection as air, when it comes down to the issue of guns and arrest warrants.

He can't match up the Newtypes to the database. Not the kills list and not the list of the ones Rzhevsky couldn't get to. Which means maybe that there's more than Rzhevsky knew about-- which was always possible, given the secrecy surrounding the programme-- or there's more than even Rzhevsky admitted to, which has disturbing shades. Rzhevsky was committed to the destruction of all living Newtypes. Until the end, when he needed Quatre Winner as insurance against Preventers creating their own Newtype programme. But was he paranoid enough to leave data unrecorded, on the off chance he got caught by the wrong people? He'd seemed to know Koh-i-Noor, when Toru said it to him, that last hour of his life, in that London basement.

Seemed. Toru doesn't know any more. That nightmare has become almost uninterpretable to him, after turning over in his mind so many times. Maybe Rzhevsky just repeated the damn word, no inflection at all. Toru can't imagine him here. Not being here and leaving it standing, whole and beautiful and unthreatened. Whatever else Rzhevsky was, he was never a man who believed in peace. And this place isn't a place producing warriors. Not for any side.

Warriors. Maybe that's what doesn't square about this place. This is a-- holiday house. A sanctuary. A dream. Not a reality. Not a place for Gundam Pilots and mobile suit soldiers, for anarchists, for rebels. For people who fought because justice was more important to them than living a long life. For people who had chosen, before they were old enough to vote or drink or even drive a car, to fundamentally alter their very bodies, their minds, because they believed it would give their side an advantage in war. This place is-- rehab. Rehabilitation for Newtypes and the people who got dragged along with them. The children who never had a choice at all.

He figures out somewhere in the middle of ripping up a spiky-leafed plant by the roots that he's angry. That what he's feeling is resentment. He tries to swallow it down. He doesn't want to feel that. It doesn't help anything. It won't help with the decisions he has to make, that he wants to make in the most sober mood possible. But he is angry. This place overturns everything he's just spent four months learning about Newtypes. About the whys of a half-century of history. It takes a deliberate thing and makes it random fate. Evolution. There is a reason for everything. Someone else's reason. And he's been living with that his whole life and it stinks. It goes against every grain inside him.

'We can talk about it, if you'd like.'

Winner.

Toru shades his eyes against the sun overhead. Winner sits on the ground with him, leaning back against the trunk of a tall coconut tree. He even dresses differently, now. The blue cotton tunic, loose trousers rolled at the ankle. Sandals. Quatre Winner has feet.

'You aren't hungry?' Winner asks him. 'I brought you a bit of sandwich.'

Toru takes the napkin, but doesn't open it. 'I'm not avoiding you.'

'I didn't think you were.' Winner props his arms on his knees, head resting back against the bark. 'It's a great deal to take in.'

'You've changed.' Toru scoots back to his own tree, setting his shoulders flat against it. It's marginally cooler under the branches, but the physical distance helps. He turns his head away. 'Not just the beard, though I think Barton's going to shit himself about that. You smile more.'

'You're swearing more,' Winner notes disapprovingly. 'But the compliment I will take. I feel lighter here. Lighter than I've felt in forever.'

'Ishaq, too.' Toru finds new grass to pick at, getting dirt under his fingernails. 'I don't know. Maybe he was happier before Preventers nabbed him in Canada. But he likes it here. I even saw him shake hands with that Indian lady. He avoids that.'

'You're different, too.' Winner is watching him when he looks up, so he looks away again. For all the good it does. Winner only sighs, somewhere to his left. 'You're carrying darkness with you now. I'm sorry for that. For my part in it.'

'It's not you. I did most of it on my own.' Toru drops his head, rubs at his sore neck. 'I did a lot of things in the last month that I'm not terribly proud of. If you'd asked me last year if I thought I was capable of it, I would have said no. But I am.'

'You're clever and you're quick. You'll be capable of more than most around you, if only because you'll think of it faster, and be tempted more often.' Winner waits him out patiently. 'You're in a place with more cumulative guilt than a Catholic penitentiary. Every Newtype here fought in a battle, some of us against each other, all of us in a cause that's been forgotten or made irrelevant by the war that came after ours. You have an opportunity most of us won't have. To learn enough discipline to recognise an idea with bad consequences when it hits you, and choose not to act on it.' His shrug is a vague blue blur in the corner of Toru's vision. 'Then, you're only eighteen. You've got room to grow.'

There's kindness in that. Toru isn't sure he's earned it. He's already said Winner's different, so it's not worth saying again, but that's part of it. Winner would say things like that to him before, but never with that tone. Benign, yes. Occasionally sympathetic. But never fond. Affectionate, even.

So add that to the worth of this place. It's transformed a man who can't have been here all that much longer than Toru; days at the most. Transformed a man who's spent the majority of his adult life isolated and lonely and not a little damaged by it.

Toru rips up a handful of grass and scatters it to the breeze. 'I thought of a name for it.'

'A name for what?'

'Newtype children. There's Normals, and Newtypes, and--' He presses his lips between his teeth. 'Newtykes.'

Winner grins. 'Really.'

'I need to go back,' he says then. 'I have to check in with Dawes and Micheko. If I don't, they'll find this place. One way or another.'

Winner nods. 'Will you be telling them about Koh-i-Noor?'

'No.' That decision comes easily enough. 'There's people here who aren't involved in what's going on with Preventers, and shouldn't be. This whole thing about the Newtykes... I don't know how that fits in yet, but it's not the right time to bring it up with them.'

'Heero won't leave his family,' Winner says. 'And I won't ask it of him.'

'So you did come here thinking he could prove to Preventers that creating a Newtype programme in the modern age wasn't viable.'

Winner acknowledges that with a dip of his head. 'You've come a long way. That answers a question I've had for a while.'

'Oh?'

'You're developing abilities,' Winner tells him. 'You called to me, twice.'

'No-- no, that was Ishaq, and Rzhevsky.'

'You may have somehow piggy-backed their experience, but I don't know of any Newtype who's ever been able to speak across distance to someone else. That's all you. And Ishaq told me about your idea that Newtypes can replicate each other's abilities.'

'I didn't think of that. You did.'

'You didn't know I did,' Winner points out. 'You figured it out. You have an innate understanding of the possibilities. The potentialities.'

Toru curls his hands into fists. 'I told Ishaq that Preventers found his family. I'm pretty sure he's got a sibling who's a Newtype too. I thought... Rzhevsky told us that negative emotions make Newtype abilities work better.'

Winner searches his face. 'You haven't found his family, though, have you.'

'No. I lied to make him try harder.'

'He doesn't know yet.'

'No.'

'Then you're telling the wrong Newtype.' Winner grimaces. 'I suppose I understand what you were trying to do. You already know it was wrong.'

'It was so easy to do.' He tips his head back, to stare up at the waving fronds above him. 'It's all been easy. Is it always like that? Knowing it's bad and absolutely no obstacle to doing it anyway?'

'Oh, Toru.' Winner curls his knees to his chest, hugs them loosely. 'Almost always.'

'That's why you're so afraid of Preventers, isn't it. That we'd just-- start down some slippery slope and never see the bottom coming until we got there.'

'It happens less when you have multiple perspectives working together, instead of at odds.'

Toru looks at him, hesitating. 'Does that mean-- does that mean you're coming back with us?'

'Yes,' Winner says. 'Yes, I'll go back with you. More than that, I think it's time I cooperate with Preventers. I think we can avoid some of the worst mistakes, on both sides, if we actually talk to each other.'

'Everyone will be glad. Except for Barton.' Toru can't stop his mind racing off in a thousand directions, though, and they all lead back to the man sitting across from him, martyring himself when four weeks ago he went Awol and jumped continents just to avoid this very circumstance. 'Quatre? Are you sure you don't want to stay here? It's-- lovely. Everyone seems really friendly. Heero Yuy is here, and his family. They'd welcome you. If you... look, if you asked me to, I'd pretend we never found you. I'll make sure they never find this place, or you, and it'll be like none of the rest of it ever even happened. You could have a good life.'

'Thank you.' Winner scratches his beard. 'But it's all right. It's time. I'm ready. And I think it's enough for me, to know this place is here. That it exists, and it's out here for people who need it. That there are young people who will grow up without the stigma and the pain.' His hand pauses over his mouth, and his eyes redden as he pauses. He shakes his head. 'It's-- it's a good place. It makes me so happy, to know it's here.' His voice goes dry, and he only shakes his head again.

'Quatre.' Toru wets his lips. 'I don't know what to say except to ask if you're sure.'

'Yes.' Winner clears his throat. 'And I think things might even be easier now on the outside. I haven't had a chance to tell you. I've been practising.'

'Practising?'

'Meditation.' Winner smiles wanly. 'Turns out I might have been underestimating its effects.'

'Told you.' Toru drops his chin onto his shoulder. 'I wondered. Am wondering. There's, what, twenty people here. It's not just meditation.'

'I'm not taking Rzhevsky's jabs, if that's what you're insinuating. That might be a story for a later time, though.' Winner turns his head. 'One of the Newtykes. Coming in hot, if I'm not mistaken. You haven't met him yet. Puneet.'

That name is familiar. It takes him precious seconds to place it, seconds in which Toru hears the physical manifestation of what Winner heard with his mind-- the approach of a motorbike. Motorbike. 'Puneet Sharma?'

'Yes.' Winner looks at him curiously, and then his face goes closed. 'They know who he is.'

'Yes.' Toru scrambles to his feet. 'You don't sense anyone behind him? Following?'

'No... no, I don't think so.' Winner uses Toru's outstretched hand for leverage. 'Hurry. Back to the house.'

The mid-day meal is in full swing when they come running back, only just ahead of Sharma's motorbike zooming into the courtyard. Not having Winner's ability, no-one else has sensed trouble brewing, so no-one jumps at their arrival, though more than one person at the table seems to be waiting for them. Khosa, seated next to the woman Toru had noticed him with before, half-rises; so does Sun, who falls to worry when Winner goes straight to Heero Yuy, bending low to murmur to him so the others won't hear. Toru wipes sweat from his brow, his neck.

Sharma halts the bike by the tree in a swirl of dirt and drops it to the grass. 'People in the village,' he gasps out. 'Asking questions.'

Sylvia Noventa is standing. Yuy quiets her with a touch, and Winner is informing her now, whispering. Toru comes to the table as Winner beckons him.

'Questions,' Yuy echoes. 'About Koh-i-Noor?'

'And me. They had my name and the bike's license.' Sharma has noted the strangers at the table, and regards them with all due suspicion. 'They have badges,' he says. 'They're not local.'

'We need to go now,' Toru announces. 'If we meet them back on the road they'll have no reason to keep searching.'

'Quatre.' Yuy stops Winner with a hand on his arm. 'You're sure?'

'As I can be.' Winner embraces his friend, and Yuy even holds him close when he would have stepped back. 'Be well, Heero.'

'Find us again, some day.'

'I hope to.' Winner kisses Sylvia Noventa on both cheeks. 'Thank you. For more than you can know.'

Khosa has come to Toru's side. 'If we follow the waterfront north, we can come out at Ichchapuram. It might draw attention away from Koh-i-Noor.'

'Good idea. You should stay here.' He has a panic somewhere in the middle of saying that, and loses his voice at the end of it. He tries to speak, and nothing comes out. He shakes his head.

Khosa is staring. 'What?'

'Stay.' Toru rubs his mouth. God. Rzhevsky dying on his watch was one thing. Losing Winner was one thing. This is-- active insubordination. 'You should stay. You'd be safe here, hidden here. I'll find a-- I don't know. I'll find a way to explain it. Say you gave me the slip. We'll look, and I'll make sure we don't find this place.'

'You can't,' Khosa says, but the longing is there in his face, and he's already leaning away, toward the house. 'You could be jailed if they found out you let me go.'

'That's my problem. Not yours.' Toru checks his phone. He has messages. 'Get your family here. Whoever you were trying to protect from us. Live a good life. You earned it.'

'Toru.'

'What you said about loyalty. That it's got to be active. A choice that you make.' Watching Winner choose to protect his people, his friends, by leaving the only place that might ever really welcome him. Watching the trap Toru helped set close around them like a net, the fear setting in as everyone realises they're endangered, because of him. 'I'm choosing,' Toru says. 'You've served enough.'

Khosa's shoulders slump in relief. 'Thank you,' he breathes, and for the first time voluntarily takes Toru's hand, both hands, squeezing hard. 'Thank you. For everything.'

'We'll try to move them out as soon as possible,' Winner promises, returning from the house with a packed duffel. His hand on Toru's shoulder rests gently, his eyes proud. Toru ducks his head, wishing he felt worthy of it. 'Where do we need to get to?'

'The hostel in Ichchapuram,' Toru says. 'That's the meet-up.' His phone buzzes against in his pocket. 'Soon. Soon as possible.'

'Come,' Winner says, and Toru follows.


	20. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Sometimes I can't stand how sad it is,' he says, his throat tight._

'We're headed back to the hostel.' A car coming up the road toots at them, and Toru steps sideways into the rut alongside the road, sheltering Winner with his arm. 'We'll be there in about twenty, I think.'

 _'We'll head back, too, then.'_ He can hear noise, wherever Micheko is, something loud and mechanical, people talking. _'We went up the road about thirty miles. There's a medical college in Brahmapur Sadar. One of the locals thought that our person of interest, Sharma, might work there during the week. Not having any luck so far.'_

No luck, Toru mouths at Winner, who's already nodding. 'I, um,' Toru says. 'It's been kind of a-- big morning here.'

_'Big morning?'_

Toru needs a breath before he says it. He needs a bottle of water, or maybe a bottle of something stronger. 'I found Quatre.'

 _'What!'_ There's confusion on the line, for a minute, her voice going in and out and muffled, and then it's Dawes. _'Winner? He's here?'_

'He found us, I guess.' His phone beeps in the middle of that, directing him across the junction toward the Metro Station, and the hostel behind it. 'I lost Khosa.'

_'Wait, you what-- he lost Khosa. Craft, last known location?'_

'It's-- not easy to explain. Look, we'll discuss it when we're all back together. There's a lot to discuss.'

_'We're in the van. We'll be back in about half an hour. Do you want to call it in on Khosa? Get an image out there for dissemination and BOLO?'_

'We'll talk,' is all Toru says. 'We're in traffic. We'll see you shortly.'

'I don't know if you ought to have told them right off,' Winner comments.

'It gives them time to come to the same conclusion I did. That you're the Newtype we always wanted, and we can afford to let Khosa slip off into the wilds.' Toru checks their direction a final time, and tucks his phone away. 'If that's still what you want.'

'I don't mistake it for easy.' The good of the magic at Koh-i-Noor is wearing off already, Toru notices. Winner has tensed since they entered Ichchapuram, and when townspeople walk too close, he starts and stares. 'Tell them I did something Newtype-y to you,' Winner says absently. 'Or knocked you on the noggin.'

'I'm not sure that actually helps my reputation.' The mid-day heat is stifling, and now that they don't have access to the waterfront it's even worse. Toru is running out of dry spots on his sleeve to wipe himself off. 'We should clear up a few things while we're alone.'

'The shield idea vexes you.'

'I don't understand how it could both-- well, repel Newtypes and still be a thing that Ishaq sensed when we were getting closer. And how does it work? Or who makes it work?'

'Sylvia. Newtykes can develop abilities as Newtypes do. Though I believe, and if we'd had more time I think I could prove, that Newtykes have a much wider range.' Winner shifts his duffel to the other shoulder. 'Sylvia's ability mutes the Flash. A place with that many Newtypes should have rung like a beacon to Rzhevsky. But her shield made it impossible for Rzhevsky to find it. For me to find it.'

'Then how did you know where to go?'

'It hides the Flash. But not what I can do-- read people. I was searching for Heero in particular. I'd have glimpses. Frustrating glimpses, as if he were hiding behind a frosted pane.' Toru waits for Winner to go first around a big crater in their path, and Winner waits until they walk in step again to continue. 'Rzhevsky's method got me close, but eventually I was just roaming with no real idea of where. It wasn't until the end, until I was nearly upon the place by accident, that I gave up. I got myself arrested and let the police do the searching for me.'

'The-- wait, the police know about Koh-i-Noor? About Heero Yuy?'

'I think they know him by some other name. But he's distinctive, you'd agree.' Winner turns a sideways gaze of whimsy on him. 'You never tried that, did you. You Preventers are an amusing bunch. You never just asked about Heero Yuy, did you?'

No. They'd gone after every angle but that. 'I guess we just assumed he'd stay underground,' Toru says. 'So that worked?'

'It did. It so happened I wasn't far off from Koh-i-Noor. I'd managed to get to Palkonda. They sent that young man with the motorbike to pick me up. I haven't ridden one since I was your age, with Trowa. At any rate, I'm not the first to arrive unexpectedly. Sylvia's shield helps to hide them, but it can attract, as well, once you're near enough, just because it's so different.'

'I guess that explains it.' They round a bend in the road, the Metro Station is visible ahead, a small light-coloured building squatted beside the tracks. This time of day, the train is coming through on regular runs, and there's a decent crowd of people. They'll have to go right through it, even as Winner flinches from it. 'Ishaq kept having visions of you that ended with a prison cell,' Toru says, catching Winner's gaze. 'He couldn't ever see past that. Because after that, you were inside the shield.'

Winner hugs the strap of his duffel to his chest, eyes on the street ahead of them. 'It's been rather an adventure. I'm glad to know I can still survive it.'

'You're not the only one.'

'You worried.'

'Of course I did.' Toru drags his sleeve cuff over his upper lip. 'You said you're not taking Rzhevsky's formula. Is it going to be hard for you, once you're with our group?'

'So it seems.' A loudly bickering family passes them, the mother openly rolling her eyes as her husband hectors the children who all seem to be moving in different directions. Winner moves closer to Toru. 'You're in a hostel?'

'We don't have to stay there. In fact, we'll probably move on immediately. There's no reason to stay here now that we've located you.' Toru moves to Winner's other side, between him and most of the crowd. 'Want me to see if I can find alcohol?'

'No.' Winner smiles swiftly at him. 'Toru. Before the others are with us again. What you did for Ishaq-- you won't get reward for that, but in a just world you should. It was brave.'

The hostel is thankfully empty of guests when they enter. All the luggage is with the van, so Toru can't change his sweated-out clothes, but he does his best to wash. Winner boils water on the stove, though Toru can't conceive of drinking something hot in this climate. Winner sits at the window with his tea, while Toru sprawls on the sitting room's couch with his phone, searching for flights out of the nearest airport.

They have barely fifteen minutes of waiting. Winner sits up straight, alerting Toru. He hears the van a moment later.

'Ready or not,' Winner says, not at all lightly.

'They can't yell forever.' Toru comes to the window to look out. The van has mud splashed up the sides. They've been somewhere less pleasant than Toru. He can't believe it's been-- what, eight hours. It feels like years.

Winner's too distracted to read that off him. He's fidgeting, his thumbs rubbing over tight fists. Toru almost goes back to the couch to give him room, then decides against it. He'll want an ally, when that yelling starts. Barton gets loud, for such a quiet man.

There's a door crash somewhere on the storey below. Boots on the stairs. The door to the sitting room slams, too, bouncing off the wall, thrown there by Barton, who comes to a dead stop in the open doorway.

Winner stands, jerkily. 'Trowa,' he says.

It takes a long minute for Barton to move. When he does, stepping slowly inside, Dawes and Micheko come in after him, filtering to either side, watching warily. Barton must not be taking the news as expected. As far as Toru can tell, this is par for the course. He chews the inside of his mouth, wondering if he ought to interfere, just to break the ice.

Barton stops again when he stands directly in front of Winner. For all Winner's nerves before, now he only waits, silently. His chest rises and falls in a breath. Barton inhales, too. And then he lifts a hand and slaps Winner across the face.

'Hey,' Toru snaps, and he does move in, because that's not going to fly. But Winner only touches his cheek, red from the force of the hit, and then he reaches up to grip the cotton of Barton's tee, winding his fingers in it.

'I'm okay,' he says tenderly. 'I'm all right, Trowa. I am.'

Barton swallows hard. He covers Winner's hands on his chest. Pulls Winner in by the shoulders, by the back of the neck, and kisses him.

Toru screws his mouth to the side. That's better than the hitting, but it's not really any less embarrassing for anyone else. Winner winds his arms about Barton, hands up in his hair, and Barton wraps him tight, even pulling him off his feet. They break to whisper to each other, Barton burying his eyes in Winner's neck. They kiss again, slow and gentle.

Toru clears his throat. Micheko and Dawes, riveted by the show, blink at him. Toru jerks his head to the side. They reassemble by the far window, though Micheko looks wistfully back.

'Khosa,' Dawes opens.

'He ran,' Toru says bluntly. 'When we found Quatre. I was distracted and he took the opening.'

'And here we thought Barton was the flight risk.' Micheko puts her back to the reunion. 'It's not good, Toru. That you lost him.'

'No shit,' Toru says, playing it cool and professional in the face of her confrontation. 'We can search. But our strategy of using the Flash to identify missing Newtypes has some built-in flaws, I think. Not least that Winner isn't willing. He'll play along if we leave Khosa alone.'

'He'll play along if we raise the stakes. He can fly back in handcuffs otherwise.'

Dawes sighs. 'Let's just end the chest-thumping. The point is that we've got one Newtype out of three. Did he say anything about Heero Yuy?'

'He never found him,' Toru says, meeting Micheko's eyes. 'He got arrested, wandering around trying Rzhevsky's Newtype tracking. He sat in prison for two weeks. They'd only just let him out.'

'But does he think Yuy's nearby? Should we keep searching?'

'If you like,' Winner says, from within the circle of Barton's arms. 'But I'm not sure it's worth the resources. If he were here, I would have found him.' He looks up into Barton's face, stroking with a finger. 'When you ring your Command, tell them I waive the immunity agreement. I'm willing to come in.'

'Quat,' Barton protests, but says nothing else when Winner only shakes his head.

'The Newtypes are scattered and fallen,' Winner murmurs. 'Rzhevsky. Ishaq Khosa. Heero Yuy. Our era is over. There's no point left in stalling and stonewalling. I'll come in.'

Dawes has both eyebrows raised. 'Well,' he says, when Micheko can only shrug uneasily and Toru offers no help. 'I'll ring Command then, shall I.'

'Good.' Toru hands over his phone to Dawes. 'It's charged. And I found flights. You can mention that when you talk to Po.'

'Where are you going?' Micheko demands.

'I'm starving,' Toru says over his shoulder, taking a wide berth around the couple kissing in the middle of the room and heading for the door. 'It's your turn to watch them. If they run, I don't want to hear about it.'

Without his phone, he can't search for nearby restaurants, but it doesn't seem likely that the local kabob stand would be registered as a GPS point anyway. So he just walks up the street-- storms, for the first few blocks, until he runs out of steam. It's too hot to be angry, specially when he's not entirely sure why he is. Or if it's just reaction. The whole morning finally hitting him.

Because it doesn't feel like something that only took a few hours. It's too massive, even if the details are already slipping away. He feels a little like an alien who crashed on a foreign shore, or something like that; a visitor to someplace unimaginable and unencompassable, and now that he's not there he wonders if he ever really was. The fact that Koh-i-Noor is only miles up the motorway doesn't make it feel any closer than the moon. Hell, Lunar One would feel more real. He's been there a half-dozen times. Koh-i-Noor is far more radically strange.

He buys some kind of beef curry and sits on a slab of broken concrete passing as a bench to eat, watching the mid-day traffic on the motorway. He doesn't have a sense of what happens next-- maybe that's the problem. Everything that's happened before, he's always known what happens next. When they were hunting Rzhevsky and he wanted to find a Newtype to help them, it was get Quatre Winner. When they had Quatre Winner, it was get him to cooperate. When he cooperated, it was get him to Rzhevsky. Then it was get him to cooperate again so they could interview Rzhevsky. Then it was find him, because he had to be found, whatever the reason was; it was at least a task, and he was equipped for it. But now, he can't see what happens after this. They'll go back to Brussels. And probably he'll take a hit over how all of it's happened, and he probably will spend a few years in Traffic Watch, assigned to a desk with nothing more important to do than flag suspicious web activity. He can't feel anything about that. Even the anger about it is gone.

He goes back when he can't think of a reason not to.

A three-legged dog gets the scraps of his lunch, docilely allowing him to rub its pointy ears. He passes a pair of school-children on their way back from the Metro, chatting happily until they see him and then giving him a wide berth, though the younger of the two smiles tentatively at him. Toru smiles back tiredly.

When he rounds the alley for the hostel, he finds someone waiting for him at the van. Someone who glows.

He slows, first. It can only be bad that she's there. Then he hustles, because if she is here, maybe it's worse than bad. But there's nothing urgent in her body language, in her expression.

'Sun?' he asks, pulling her around the far side of the vehicle so she won't be seen from the window. 'How did you find us?'

'You said you were at the hostel,' she reminds him. 'There's only one in town.'

'Did something happen? They didn't actually find Puneet. I don't think they know about-- Why do you have a bag?' He takes it from her without asking permission, flipping back the canvas fold and rifling the contents. Clothes. A pair of boots. A passport.

'You are not coming with us,' Toru tells her flatly, shoving the bag back at her.

'Why not?' Sun retorts, as if it's perfectly reasonable. 'You left your friend Khosa behind. You need a replacement.'

'A Newtype. Which you're not.' A man walking past with his bicycle looks curiously at their raised voices. Toru moves Sun closer to the van, trapping her there with his arm, hiding her with his own body. 'Does your father even know you've slipped away?'

'Of course I told him.' Sun nudges her thick braid of dark hair off her should with a negligent brush, as if she could just as easily brush off Toru's argument. 'He's not happy. But he wouldn't stop me.'

'Coming with us risks the very thing we're trying to avoid. You're exposing Koh-i-Noor!'

'I think a white lie probably covers that pretty easily.' Sun removes the passport from her bag and shows Toru the picture ID page. It is, notably, not her real name-- Sun Ohayashi. Toru grimaces over it, scratching at the page with a fingernail to see if the laminate comes off, or any other obvious sign of forgery.

'How did you even get this?'

'I sneaked out last year to get it made.'

'You have to have documents to prove it-- God. We're not arguing about a fake passport. You're not coming.' Toru wipes his forehead, and leans back in time to stop her from grabbing her passport back. 'You don't even know what you're attempting to get into. You have no idea what the world looks like outside this town.'

'That's why I want to go,' Sun tells him, sombre now. 'I've been hidden away here my entire life. I appreciate the reasons. I appreciate why they felt they had to. But I want to know what the world is like now. And you prove that people like us can live out there. That we don't need a private paradise hermetically sealed off from the universe to survive. I want to know that for myself.'

'I don't know that I have proved it.' Toru puts his back to the muddy van. 'They don't know who I am. I didn't know who I was. Until I met Quatre. Until I found Koh-i-Noor.'

'Then I should come,' Sun says. 'We can do our finding out together.'

Toru rubs his thumb over the plastic of her passport, and sighs. 'I'm not going to pretend that doesn't have appeal. Someone who knows. But it won't be like that. If you come, you'll probably be separated from me and pulled off to do who the hell knows what. Experiments. You won't be a private citizen. You may not have right of refusal. And the fact that you're looking at me like you don't even know what that means worries the hell out of me.'

'Quatre's right. You do swear too much.' Sun leans next to him, her shoulder brushing his. 'Why do you think he decided to go back?'

'He says it's something about time to cooperate so that more than one perspective is heard.'

'You don't think that's true?'

'I think it's an awfully fast turn-about for a man who's believed with all his soul that my government has no interest in hearing his version of the truth.'

A frown line appears between her brows. She's pretty, Toru notes, and wishes he hadn't. He looks away.

'I think he's going for you,' Sun says. 'You were all he talked about for days. The next generation. I think he's going so that you can live out there in the open and not have to hide behind a fake name. Toru Craft. Newtypes changed the world once. He wants to change it one more time. For you.'

'That's... I didn't ask him to do that.' He clears his throat. 'I didn't ask for that to be laid at my door.'

'I know. He knows. But he's doing it anyway. He likes you. He cares about you. But at the end of the day, this is what Newtypes do. Change the world. And try to do it for the better.'

'That's not why you want to come.'

'I want to do something with myself. I can't do that from Koh-i-Noor. Tell me again that's not the same thing.'

'Sun.'

She takes his hand. 'Mars,' she says.

He looks at her. 'What? Mars? What about it?'

'I see things, sometimes. With you, I see Mars. The planet. I don't know what it means yet.'

'You're clairvoyant?'

'I don't know.' Sun shrugs. 'We never put names on things. I guess your Prevention will want to do that, huh.'

'Preventers. Probably.' Toru licks his lips. She's still holding his hand. She has small hands, wrapped in his big ungainly ones. 'My name. It's Peacecraft.'

'Oh. Instead of Craft. I get it.'

'Like Milliardo Peacecraft. Relena Peacecraft.'

'Okay.'

'You don't know who they are?'

'I know the name Relena. My parents talk about her sometimes. She was someone important, wasn't she.'

Toru can only shake his head. 'I think you're going to need access to a library.'

Sun brightens at that. 'You have books?'

That startles him into a laugh. 'You'll enjoy it, I guess. I... guess you can come. If Quatre verifies that you really did tell your parents.'

'Tattle-tale.' She grins at him. 'Lighten up. It'll be interesting, at least.'

'I don't doubt that.' She's still holding his hand. Toru takes a deep breath. 'Then, I guess-- come on up and meet everyone.'

 

**

 

It's mildly gratifying that Winner isn't all that thrilled by Sun's unexpected arrival, either.

But he's quick on his feet, and with almost no prompting-- no spoken prompting, at least, though there's a lot of fast thinking that Toru is desperately hoping Winner can read off him-- they cobble together a story that doesn't sound overtly fake. Sun is a Newtype, they crossed paths when he entered India searching for Heero Yuy. Winner even concocts a spin on Toru's loss of Ishaq Khosa: that he had Sun with him this morning, when Toru and Khosa happened upon them, and in the confusion of the chase Sun and Khosa split off one direction, neither returning, while Toru went after Winner and landed him.

None of which explains why Sun would turn up again, voluntarily. While Toru hesitates, trying not to stammer and give himself away, Sun merely shrugs.

'I wanted to be sure you were all right,' she says. 'Given how you feel about the Preventers.'

She says it to Winner. But she's looking at Toru.

Worse, Micheko sees it. Toru watches her, the way her lower lip disappears between her teeth, emerges white from the pressure.

'You understand we're returning Mr Winner to Brussels,' Dawes tells Sun.

'That's what he said.' Sun tugs at the strap of her bag. 'I'll go with you.'

'Will you now.' Even Dawes is hesitating. Standing in a room full of agents and-- well, people from the outside, Sun almost radiates innocence. Or naivete. Winner is hovering protectively at her shoulder, Barton has placed himself not-so-coincidentally between the Newtypes and the agents, even if he doesn't seem to know what's going on. 'May I ask-- what's brought on that decision?'

'I want to stay with him.' Sun smiles at Winner, then, sliding her small hand about his arm. Winner ducks his head away, though he gently covers her hand. 'I can help him.'

'Help him?' Micheko repeats sharply. 'How? Help him how?'

'With the people.'

'I don't understand. Mr Winner? What's she mean?'

'It is... better around her,' Winner admits slowly. He raises his head to meet Toru's eyes, only briefly. Toru blinks, unsure what to make of that. 'I can last longer. Be around more people. But that's not a good enough reason, Sun.'

'Sometimes you just have to trust,' Sun says. 'You are. I will, too. If we're wrong, at least we'll be wrong together.'

'Great,' Barton mutters.

Dawes scratches his neck, and surrenders with a shrug. 'Guess we'll need another ticket for the plane.'

'That's it?' Micheko turns on him. 'No clearance? No questions?'

'I'm not seeing how it's a bad thing. We left with one and we're coming back with two. Two voluntary.' Dawes dips to their luggage to pull out the case reader, and tosses it at Toru. 'Craft, a quick check on the sources while I book that flight.'

Sources. Rzhevsky's list, that means. Toru already knows Sun isn't on it, but he makes a show of requesting her documents, that fake passport included. Micheko watches over his shoulder as he queries the made-up name, and she lets out an impatient huff of air when it comes back no results. 'Makes you wonder how much we don't know,' she murmurs.

'Maybe now they'll start telling us,' Toru replies. He perches on a chair to enter Sun's passport number. It may well turn up down the line as a forgery, but not until they run it against the right databases, and that's probably weeks away. By then, who knows. Either the truth will be out or it won't matter. They're past the point of expecting to know anything real about Newtypes. And if Winner's right, and that era really is over, then eventually it won't matter anyway.

'We're really giving up on Khosa?' Micheko presses suddenly. 'Maybe he was just looking for that one.'

'He ran, okay?' Toru turns off the reader. 'And why wouldn't he? You want the truth? I would have. He never wanted to help us. We forced him. We did it nicely, but it was always a threat.'

'What you're saying is you knew he was going to dash for it and you didn't go after him.'

'I'm saying it was Quatre or Ishaq and I made a choice.' That's the real truth, and it almost feels good to say it. 'And I don't care if you do report it.'

'Why are you throwing away your career for them?' Micheko turns him when he would have walked away, and if only because her touch still makes his stomach flip he stays, lets her lecture him, even as his chest goes tight and a hot feeling gathers in his head. 'It's not that you're not good at this. You are. But you can't keep making these assumptions that you think are compassionate. They're really just weak. You let Mr Winner talk fast at you and you buy his version of the story. You let Mr Khosa make sad eyes at you and you forgot that he destroyed evidence and lied and probably got Rzhevsky killed. And now this girl? What's going to happen with her?'

Toru sets his jaw. 'Say what you want to say, Walker.'

Micheko releases his wrist. 'Commander was right. You need to be watched for your own good.'

She's gone before he can do more than breathe that in. But it only leaves him cold. It hardly registers as a surprise.

He feels oddly calm as he walks back to Winner. For the second time in as many minutes, his wrist is encircled. Winner almost speaks, then doesn't. He gazes at Micheko, now guarding the door with a pugnacious look on her face. If she guesses Winner is reading her, she doesn't do anything to stop it.

Winner squeezes Toru's wrist, slides his hand to cup Toru's elbow. 'I'm sorry,' he says simply, though it's not at all simple, and not really his fault. Not really. Toru did choose. Has chosen, from the beginning.

Still, Sun is watching, and how much of any of it she comprehends he has no way of knowing. Nor Barton, who observes everything without comment-- for now. Toru makes himself shrug, makes himself clear his throat until he can manage a reasonably gruff response. 'Miss-- um--'

'Ohayashi,' Sun supplies blandly.

'Miss Ohayashi.' He doesn't dare say it aloud, not with Micheko watching. Instead, he thinks it, hard, concentrating on just the word, investing it with every grave worry in him.

_Koh-i-Noor?_

Winner's eyes drift sideways to Sun. They linger there, narrowed just slightly. Reading her. He shakes his head, almost too small a gesture to be noticed. 'They know,' he says.

Sun tugs at her braid, her dark black hair that looks so much like her father's. 'Who knows what?'

So she did tell the truth. That's some relief. Not much, at this point. They'll miss her. They'll never know what happens to her, unless she's able to go back, someday. Go back without being trailed by Preventers. Or by someone like Ivan Rzhevsky. That chills him. Winner's face is hollow, echoing his feelings.

Toru clears his throat. 'Miss? You mentioned being able to help Mr Winner?'

'You're not the only one who's curious,' Barton mutters. He knocks Winner's hand away from Toru and takes it for himself. The move is blatantly territorial, but it makes Winner grin.

'It's something I've discovered in the... course of this journey,' Winner says carefully. 'Though I think there's a certain amount of evidence from this past year. The presence of-- other people with abilities seems to-- smooth things out.'

'Things,' Toru says. 'Your head stuff.'

'My head stuff.' Winner nods toward Dawes, labouriously booking their travel via teleconference. 'We should be approaching my limit for proximity to other people. I shouldn't be especially coherent just now. Yet I am. Standing on my own power, even.'

'Like that time in Brussels.' Toru frowns, remembering it, counting in his memory. 'That was six people. Seven, is what tipped it. So what's the difference?'

'Other people with abilities,' Winner says again.

That same cautious wording. Meaning not Newtypes. Because there's no other Newtypes in the room now, even if they're pretending Sun is one. But she's not. She's a New _tyke_. A child of someone with abilities, and she's got something of her own, she said.

Evidence from the past year. That means Toru. Who is also a Newtyke. And, according to Winner, also a person with abilities.

'Yes,' Winner says.

'No.'

'Yes,' Winner says again, amused and sad. 'But we should discuss that later.'

'What about the flight? I mean-- this aside. Or this in focus. You don't do well with flights.'

'I have your prescription,' Barton tells him.

'I'd like to be brave and face it in the name of proper experimentation. But perhaps not just yet.' Barton puts his arm about Winner's shoulders, and Winner looks pleased with that development. 'Don't worry. I won't vex you.'

'I don't believe even a little bit of that,' Barton says. His voice is maybe a little too dry, and there's a momentary sheen in his eyes, blinked stoically away. Winner's smile fades. He twines their fingers.

'Come help me shave before we get to the road,' he murmurs. 'If that's all right, Toru.'

'Yeah.' Toru steps aside immediately. 'Take your time. We'll get checked out of the hostel.'

'They're sweet,' Sun observes, watching them go. Micheko and Dawes are watching, too, for different reasons.

'There's no window in the baths,' Toru reminds them, at volume, and Micheko turns away, disgusted. Dawes accepts it with a nod.

'You're going to have to get used to things,' Toru tells Sun, and takes her bag from her again, this time just to put it with the rest of the luggage. 'No going off on your own for a while. If you need something, one of us will get it for you. And I'll hold your passport.'

'If it makes you happy.' Sun sits on the sofa, tucking her skirt beneath her. 'But if you don't mind my saying, I don't think you are.'

'It's not about being happy. I have to do my job.' Toru yanks a fresh shirt out of his bag and turns his back on her to change. 'Have you ever flown before?'

'On an airplane? No.'

Great. Between Winner and Sun they're going to have their hands full. 'When we get to the airport you'll be seated with one of us. Probably Micheko.'

'Why not you?'

He buttons his cuffs and collar and hooks his badge on its chain about his neck, tucking it into the front pocket. 'I'll probably be handling the bags.'

'While we're sitting in the air?'

'I'll probably be sitting somewhere else.' Somewhere where he can be watched, too. Two real agents, two Newtypes, and a man who'd run with them if he could. Dawes and Micheko won't let him anywhere on his own, either. He'll be lucky to piss on his own. 'Look, just do whatever you're told. They won't like it if you ask too many questions.' He drops into a crouch by the sofa, and asks the question that's eating at him, because he can't not. 'I know Quatre says you told them... but... Sun, you know you didn't really give them a choice. They couldn't come after you. They couldn't stop you. It's not really fair.'

She looks away, at first. He thinks it's shame, until she turns her head back. Her eyes are clear, and level. Bright blue, like the sky outside. 'I'm nineteen years old,' she says. 'I've never been farther away than this town. I don't think that's fair, either. But what's really fair or unfair? My father was a hero for a year and he was so tortured by it that he'll be stuck in the same acre of space for the rest of his life. Even a paradise can be a prison. My mother's his warden as much as his wife. I didn't choose that life. But you must have felt the same.'

'What do you mean?'

'You must not have grown up with your parents. If it's all still new to you. You left it behind.'

'No.' Toru rubs a finger under his collar, along skin already damp with heat. 'No, I... they... they've been gone since I was a child.'

She touches his hair. It's shockingly intimate, for a girl who didn't even know his last name until ten minutes ago. Who does know his last name and doesn't have any idea what it means. She curls a lock around her finger. 'You've been lonely.'

'You haven't been.' Toru tugs her hand away, so the others won't see. 'You've been lucky, to have them. To have everything you had there. I understand what you're saying, really. But I think you'll miss it there more than you know.'

'Right.' Dawes tosses Toru his phone. 'We're booked out of Visakhapatnam on a military flight at nine tonight.'

'That's a tight drive. Visakhapatnam is almost six hours up the road.' Toru comes to his feet. 'We should get moving.'

'Amen to that.' Dawes rubs his hands together. 'All in all, it's not badly done, you know. Thought we'd be out here wandering for weeks.'

'Dawes.' Toru polishes away fingerprints on the screen of his phone, pockets it slowly. 'Thanks. For not making a fuss about Khosa.'

'Milk's already spilt. Or the Newtype, as it were.' Dawes gazes at him keenly. 'I won't make trouble for you, if that's what you're fishing for. Don't see the point in picking fights with colleagues. But you'll have trouble, you know. And it almost always comes wearing a pretty face.'

'Walker? Or Sun?'

'Not a good sign you need to ask,' Dawes answers, and heads for the baths to alert the other men they're on their way.

 

**

 

Given all the possibilities for a problem, it's sort of amazing that their flight home goes off without a hitch.

It's a military flight, so it's not as crowded as a civilian plane would be, but Winner sleeps right through the flight, his head pillowed on Barton's shoulder. Sun is all lively curiosity for the first few hours, but she drops off, too, with the lights dim and the clock ticking in toward midnight. Toru sees her head droop, and stay down.

Between refill stops in New Dehli and Frankfurt and a headwind flight thereafter, they don't land at Brussels Nationaal until mid-afternoon a full day later than they left. By then, Winner's the only one who counts as well-rested, and the rest of them are groggy and cramped and stir-crazy. Toru heads for the tarmac as soon as the hatch is open, so he can wait for their bags in the open air. Every joint in his body cracks, and he sort of still feels like he's moving even though he's standing still, and the smell of petrol burning off the plane is noxious, but it's all better than sitting for any longer.

When he finally brings their cart of luggage up the service lift and into the lobby, he finds an extra person standing with his group. An escort. Considering how it went the last time an escort showed up for them, Toru tenses. But Dawes on waves him in, no indication there's anything wrong. Toru approaches slowly.

'Driver,' Dawes introduces the man. 'Thought it best we have a van instead of multiple cars. Though I'm not sure now we ought to all go zipping back to HQ.'

'We can get a hotel for the civies.' Micheko watches as Barton fusses over Winner, who's not really awake enough to stop him. Sun is too busy watching all the people around her to do anything suspicious, like make a run for it, or even listen in on the conversation. 'Toru? What's your usual procedure for booking rooms for them?'

'I can do that, but I'm not sure we should. We kept Ishaq on base.' Toru digs into his bag and finds a packet of gum to help pop his clogged ears. 'Do we have a security concern or not?'

'I know I'd rather not be the one to make that call.' Dawes shrugs his assent. 'HQ for now. We can do what we're told after we're told it.'

'He is different,' Barton murmurs to him, when he approaches to check on them. 'I haven't seen him handle a flight this well since we were seventeen.'

'That's good. I don't get how, but it's good.' Toru checks his wallet for local currency, but he must have emptied it before their last trip. 'We're headed into town. You think he'll hold?'

'He only took the last pill six hours ago. He'll be dragging for a few more.' Barton stands, with his hand lingering on Winner's shoulder. 'I heard someone say HQ. They're not expecting us to debrief right away?'

'I don't think so. Not you, anyway. They'll probably keep us in lockdown until morning when they can get everyone important in place to join in.' The driver is taking care of their luggage, freeing Toru of his only actual duty. So he sticks to corralling Sun, bringing her away from the window and providing her with the three coins he managed to find in the wallet fold.

'What are these?' she asks, holding them up to the light to examine.

'For the fountain. You toss them in to pay for wishes. We'll pass it in a minute.'

'How odd,' Sun says, delighted.

There's a crease between Barton's brows, looking at her. Toru wonders if Winner managed to tell him while they were alone. The grown daughter of a friend he'd thought was long lost, if not dead. If he's hurt or jealous that he didn't get to see Koh-i-Noor. It might not have meant the same things to Barton that it did to Winner or even to Toru, but it was still his people, his generation, his cause and its aftermath. He's been as alone as Winner, in his way. Happier, stabler, but no less exiled.

'We'll, uh.' Toru clears his throat. 'Look, not that I'm in a position to promise anything. But if you want to make any phone calls now, try to get Mr MacLeod here...'

'No.' Barton pulls the airport wheelchair near, and bends to start the business of getting Winner into it.

Toru hooks one of Winner's feet into the leg rest. 'Okay,' he says, and walks away.

By the time they get to base, it's clear that someone's been busy making Arrangements for them. There's a definite martial air to what greets them at the gates-- a pair of humvees, fully outfitted, are probably overkill, considering their runaway Newtype is still sleeping, but the armed agents who ride alongside them down the road to the barracks speak pretty well to the state of mind of the commanders who assigned them. Now they have a real escort, and door guards as well. Two for each hallway, and two for each door. There's nothing left to chance now.

One small argument, however, when it comes time to depositing their guests in the suites. Winner makes a groggy walk from the car, gets carried up the stairs by Barton, and placed on a waiting bed with no trouble. The problem starts when their door guards expect Barton to walk out of the room and leave him there.

'Put me on the phone with Command,' Toru says, stepping physically between Barton and the agent who doesn't realise he's a second away from getting his face bashed in by Barton's bunching fists.

'I'm on it,' Micheko tells him, already putting her mobile to her ear. 'Agent Walker. I need to speak with Po now. No. Now.'

'There's nowhere for them to go,' Toru points out, for all the good it does. 'There's bars on the window. It's the fourth storey. They came in voluntarily.'

'Are we under arrest?' Barton is demanding. 'This looks a hell of a lot more like a prison than not.'

'Do you want to back off?' Toru retorts. 'Not everything has to end in bloodshed. Sit down.'

'Why don't you take care of the young lady,' Dawes advises him, sotto voce. 'Could be a while til we clear this up.'

'With pleasure.' Barton isn't listening to him at all, of course, and if he wants to personally take on a gang of armed men over an issue that will probably clear up on its own, tomorrow if not immediately, it's his wasted effort. Toru is too damned tired.

They've got Sun in the same barrack as Winner. It's probably just for the sake of conserving resources, but he hopes it's close enough to preserve the good effect she's been having on him. Short tempers are much in evidence, and they'll all be better off tomorrow for the inevitably uncomfortable debriefing if Winner goes in calm and keeps a lid on Barton in the doing. As for Sun, if the display in there affected her, it's only in that she seems more thoughtful. Maybe she's getting a sense of what she agreed to, leaving her sheltered home and coming out into the real world. A place where Preventers stand at her door with automatic rifles, as if she were a wild animal that might need to be put down any second.

Toru's the one who's depressed by that, by the time they go down a set of stairs and cross the compound for her suite. It's as bare as the place they kept Ishaq, when he was here; as bare as the suite Toru will go back to, for that matter, though he doesn't even know at this point if his bunkmate is even still assigned to Brussels or has moved on. The concession to the fact that a civilian is occupying the space is that a tray of bottled water and glasses has been left on the table, since Sun won't be walking herself out to the mess hall. There's a printed menu for her dinner order, and a number to ring.

'Is everything in your bag?' Toru asks, shutting the door in the face of the agents standing in the hall.

She checks. 'Yes. Why?'

Is she really that innocent? Or just teasing him? He decides against asking. 'I know it's not very comfortable. It might not be for long. And it's not really because of you. It's really about Quatre. Once they're less jumpy about him, they'll ease off on the guards.'

'It's not like this everywhere?'

'Everywhere? No. Why would you think that it is?'

'There was a war,' Sun says, testing the bed and sitting cautiously. She sheds her sandals and pulls her feet up under her, tucks one of the limp pillows at her back against the wall. 'I thought perhaps this was just what it was like. Soldiers and guns.'

'No. No, it's not like this all the time. Or even always on base. This is-- not the usual.' Toru roves her small suite, checking half-heartedly for bugs. He doesn't see any, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. He tilts the lampshade up, feels the base. Checks the curtains and the windowpane behind the bars. 'Maybe we'll have a chance to go out into the city. You'd like it. There's people from all over the world and the colonies here. There's art and theatre and good food and all kinds of things you've never seen.' He rubs his weary eyes, closes them against the strain of a long flight. Month. Year. 'Bridges,' he says. 'There's a lot of bridges in Brussels. And flowers.'

He doesn't have to look to feel her smile. 'Would you get me flowers,' she says, not quite a question.

'If you wanted them.' He faces her. 'You're going to go through with this fiction that you're a Newtype? You're going to have to invent a whole past. A family. A history. And you're too young. That'll mean you were part of one of the new movements. We know enough about it to make it troublesome.'

'You don't think I should.'

'No,' he says bluntly. 'Not least because Commander will smell a lie. And because Quatre will twist himself into a pretzel trying to cover for you. Your cover should be as simple as possible.'

'I've never had to lie before,' Sun says. 'Not really.'

'I'm not all that good at it either.' He rubs his eyes again, wishing he had drops. 'The best lie is one that diverts attention from the thing you're trying to hide. In this case, you. Give Preventers someone else more interesting to chase. We need a name.'

'A name? A person?'

'Or a group. Newtypes belong to groups. Causes. Ishaq talked about that-- the loyalty factor. You wouldn't become a Newtype in isolation. You'd do it because there was something happening that necessitated it, because you believed in it, because you wanted to contribute... Crisis. Security, war... "Red Zone"?' Toru yanks out his hair tie and sighs away the release of pressure. 'I don't know if that's a terrible idea or not. I'll sleep on it and let you know if I can come up with anything to back that up. Or a better name.'

Sun drops her chin to her knees. 'Is it always so quiet here?'

'Quiet?' Toru leaves the wall and sits on the edge of her bed. 'It's not that quiet. Not really. You just have to listen for it. You can hear people talking in the hall. The walls are pretty thin here. And you can hear people walking to dinner or to the gym or the track. You can hear the wind. You can hear the planes and helos coming in and taking off. The base is never really silent.' He wraps his elastic around his fingers. 'It won't be the same as Koh-i-Noor.'

Her eyes fill when he says it. She tries to look away before he sees, and he expects no less. He takes her hand. She squeezes tightly, but doesn't speak until her voice is steady. He expects that, too, given her parentage. And given the fact that she took off on a world-crossing trip on little more than a whim. Not a whim. A plan, carefully executed, that had her ready and waiting for the opportunity. But still. She's a brave girl, to take her shot with virtual strangers, and he can't really imagine how that feels.

'Do you want me to go?' he asks.

'No.' She meets his gaze frankly, her eyes unblinking and very blue, very blue now. 'Can you stay?'

It'll be all over base by tomorrow if he does. Toru takes a breath, though, and nods.

Sun kisses him. Innocent or not, she got practise with someone before him. He feels relief at that, glad she's going in with her eyes open. Figuratively. They're closed now, so he closes his own, and lets himself just feel. Her lips are soft, like the skin of her neck against his fingers, the tiny pounding of her pulse when he opens his mouth against its flutter. Her hair slips over his palm like silk, soft and heavy. She undoes the buttons of his shirt, her hand cool on his shoulder, his chest. She catches his wrist, and lifts his hand to her hem. He travels her leg, the crook of her knee, her long thigh, finds the edge of cotton undergarments.

He breaks first, but she's the one who laughs. 'Sorry,' he murmurs.

'No.' She covers her eyes, rests her head on his shoulder. 'It's not...'

'It's weird,' Toru finishes. He brings his hands back where they belong. 'Like... snogging my sister.'

Sun's shoulders shake with helpless giggles. 'So much for romance.'

'It would just have confused things anyway.' Toru buries his own grin in his hands, and lets out a groan. 'Well, if you ever tell your father, at least he'll be pleased. I don't think he liked me.'

'If he'd had time to get to know you, he would have.' Sun falls back flat against the mattress, kicking out her legs over Toru's lap. He covers them gently with the folded quilt. 'There's just too much history. Your father and mine duelled a half-dozen times. It's not the sort of enmity you bury easily.'

'I thought you didn't know anything about my parents.'

'Is that what I said?' Her eyes sparkle, but then her smile takes a melancholy turn. 'It was a long time ago. The world is different now. But not their world. Wherever your parents are, it must be like that for them, too. I think all Newtypes are like that.'

'Maybe. I don't know. Maybe... maybe Mars is like Koh-i-Noor now. If they had other children. Maybe they're happy. Happier.'

Sun sits up to kiss him again. His cheek, anyway. Her arm around his neck holds him tight, keeps him warm when his body freezes tight against the familiar hurt of thinking about them. He tells himself it's getting easier. Or that it will. He's got to be running out of revelations to have about them. Besides, if he'd been on Mars with them, maybe he'd just have been like Sun, desperate to get away. To get out and learn about the world they'd left behind.

'Sometimes I can't stand how sad it is,' he says, his throat tight.

She nods. He puts his arm about her, too. She makes a comfortable weight against him. It's good. He closes his tired eyes, and just lets himself think that, that it's good and he's glad she's here, after all, and he goes to sleep like that, finally.


	21. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _' It's not just that you fear Newtypes. We fear you. Because we're not the same anymore. But part of that unhealthy history is that it never included a future. Our design was for the short-term. We were single-use weapons, if you will. If I admire anything about Preventers, and I do admire your organisation, it's that you bridge the gap between war and peace. You are more than just the present. You are a purpose than can outlast a cause.'_

He wakes mostly because he's hot.

And he's hot mostly because there's no damn air in the room and Sun is as warm as her namesake, snuggled into his chest. Toru rolls carefully away, easing a crick in his shoulder and stretching slowly. He thinks blearily about opening the window, until he remembers where they are, and that there are bars on it.

Sun is still asleep, though there's a crease on her forehead and rapid movement beneath her translucent eyelids. Her eyelashes, long enough to touch her cheeks, have clumped together. Tears? He hopes not. He hopes she would have waked him for that, but he doubts it. He would have been too proud, too.

He slides off the end of the bed, the best he can do without disturbing her, and hunts for a clock. Nothing. His phone is out of charge, too, which is not good-- he probably missed calls last night. And his charger is with his luggage, which was probably delivered back to his own barrack. Well, if he's in trouble, it won't be anything new, lately.

Toru flips on the light in the bath, angles the door to keep the glare away from Sun. He uses soap and water on his face, sheds his shirt to give himself a brief wash out of the sink. His dress shirt definitely looks slept in. He finds an iron in the linen cupboard and hots it. If he doesn't look too much like he spent the night doing what he almost spent it doing, he can probably keep rumour at a minimum.

He has to amend that thought almost immediately. There's a knock at the door.

Toru shrugs back into his shirt, hastily buttoning it. He scrapes his hair into a tail and wraps it off. Sun is just stirring when he passes her. He hesitates, but there's no point in pretending he's not here. He opens the door, just a crack.

'Good morning, Agent Walker,' he says.

Micheko's cheeks go thin as she looks him up and down. Toru is doubly grateful he ironed. Micheko brushes in past him. She's carrying a tray. Breakfast. As Sun sits up, Micheko slides the tray onto the small table, and announces, 'We're due for Commander Po at 0900.'

'Right.' Toru clears his throat. 'Miss Ohayashi, your escort will handle getting you there. You'll probably be with Quatre and Mr Barton.'

'Separate vehicles,' Micheko interrupts.

'We'll meet you there,' Toru finishes. 'Take your time getting ready.' He assumes. He still doesn't know what time it is. Or if he'll have time to make a run back to his own barrack for a change. But he takes Micheko by the elbow and steers her out without giving her an opportunity to remark on it.

He can feel Micheko vibrating tensely with anger. She at least holds it in until they're past the door guards-- different guards than the ones who started shift the night before, which makes it four people who know he spent the night with the Newtype inside. Great start. That had seemed like a less painful decision the night before.

Once they're descending the stairwell and out of sight from the crowd above, Micheko frees her arm with a snap. 'You don't get to manhandle me, Craft.'

'And you don't get to be jealous.' He gets in front of her, on the step below her, and faces her directly. 'Nothing happened. And even if it did, I'm not sure it would matter to you.'

'You don't know a damn thing,' she hisses, trying to push past him.

'Because you won't tell me!' He gives ground on three steps and just blockades her again, using his superior height and longer arms to lock the stairwell down, grabbing the rail to one side and the wall to the other. 'Start with this. Did you ever tell Commander we were sleeping together, or didn't she ask about your methods as long as you had enough to report?'

There's high spots of colour in Micheko's cheeks. Her eyes fall in what might be shame. Then lift again in defiance. 'One had nothing to do with the other.'

'So?' He waits, and she pretends not to understand him, slumping against the wall with a sigh of disgust. He reluctantly releases his stance, falling to the rail instead. 'It was after Rzhevsky, wasn't it. That's when you started acting different.'

'It was after Quatre ran away from London.'

That feels honest, at least. And requires some revision of his thinking. It adds extra weeks-- weeks he'd thought he'd been building a relationship with Micheko, weeks he'd been thinking about what it would be like to be openly in a relationship with a fellow agent. 'Oh,' is all he can say. 'Then-- then-- what happened with Rzhevsky? Why the change?'

'Commander thought you might've helped Rzhevsky end it. The dose was high enough to kill a sick man. You should have known that. I couldn't tell her otherwise.'

That stings. 'You know it wasn't like that! That was foreign territory for every single one of us!'

'Foreign territory you seemed awfully content to jump into. On just Khosa's word. For all I know he hoped it would kill him, too. And don't tell me again he just ran away in India, Toru. If Commander asks my opinion on that, I'm going to tell the truth.'

'What else have you told her?'

'That you seem to be awfully good at figuring out how Newtype abilities work. And awfully keen on keeping it away from Preventers.'

'I'm not!'

'No? How many times did you experiment with Khosa without Dawes or me there? Sympathy is one thing, Toru. I feel sorry for them, too. But you're a Preventer first.'

He can't argue that. And he runs out of steam to argue the rest of it anyway. Maybe she's not wrong-- on the facts, if not his intentions. He can see it from her perspective. If he'd run into today's version of himself a year ago, he would have found it suspicious. But he's changed. Been changed. He told Sally he was a Preventer first-- those had been her very words. But there's too much new in his world now to take into account.

'I'll meet you there at 0900,' he says, giving up. He turns his back on her and descends the stairs.

He's at the landing when she speaks again.

'The Newtype girl,' Micheko says. 'She looks like me.'

It's one more hurt. Both Micheko's flinty tone, and the words themselves. 'I hadn't noticed.'

'For that matter, we both look like Po. She must have done a number on you.'

'Go to hell, Walker,' Toru bites out, and leaves her standing there.

 

**

 

He has time to shower and change, but only just. He makes it with seconds to spare, slipping past the glass doors just as the digits on his charged phone slip to nine am.

Everyone else is present already. Complete with their complement of guards at all the entrances. Sun is wearing a pretty frock, pale pink to match the flower pinned in her hair. Where she got a flower around here, he doesn't know. Probably all she had to do was smile at one of her guards. They may look stern, but Toru would bet it won't last long. Sun doesn't have to be a Newtype to have that power.

The actual Newtype in the room is looking surprisingly well. Winner has his iPod, and Toru can hear the music, but it almost seems like he doesn't need it. Barton is with him, openly holding his hand.

'We're in the TS conference room,' Dawes informs him. 'Director Sobrinho will be on videocast.'

'Getting it all out at once.' Toru buttons his jacket. 'Is Po here yet?'

'She just went in. We're to wait for the green light.'

'Yeah.' Toru carefully bypasses Micheko and approaches Sun, standing near Winner. 'Hi,' he says, somewhat more awkwardly than he'd have liked. 'About what you and I were discussing yesterday. Have you decided how much you're planning on, um, revealing today?'

Sun smiles brightly. 'I thought I'd wing it,' she says.

Winner winces. 'You are distressingly like your father,' he mutters.

'Says you,' Toru points out, and Barton snorts out a laugh before he catches himself and remembers he doesn't like Toru. 'And we don't have time to sort it out.' The green light over the conference room door is on. Dawes gestures. 'Whatever happens in there, I'm with you.'

'No, Toru. I think it's time for us to do the dancing, not you.' Winner gives him a muted smile. 'You've got your own back to watch. And it might do you some good to watch it just now.'

'I feel like that advice might have been a lot more useful and timely six months ago.' Toru puts his hand at Sun's back and guides her through the doors. He swipes his badge. Micheko comes in behind him, and she's the one who sets the security lock.

The room is full-- as full as when they'd had Winner in here and discovered the physical limit of his exposure to people. Commander Po is there, with her deputy Bhudraja, and with Dawes, Micheko, Barton, Sun, and Toru, Toru is watching closely for signs of difficulty. Winner has his dark glasses on, and the iPod is cranked pretty high, but he seems all right. Barton sits close to him, a hand on his knee. Winner is holding tight to him.

'We're live,' Bhudraja reports, using the remote to set the web cam on its widest range. 'Director Sobrinho, any problems on your end?'

_'We're good from here.'_ A blue-ish blur resolves on the screen and becomes the Director, along with half the senior staff. _'Good morning, everyone.'_

'And good afternoon to you, Director. I hope the weather in Mozambique is fair.' Po sits central at the table. She's in uniform, full uniform, and with her hair twisted severely back, she looks older than usual, her face somehow more lined. Drained. 'As you can see, our situation has changed since we checked in last. Mr Winner, welcome back.'

'Thank you,' Winner answers, utterly unruffled.

'Agent Walker has told us that your companion seems to be easing your-- situation. Please let us know if we need to take a break, or if we need to reduce the number of people in the room. We've set up an alternate conference room so you can communicate with us via webcam if need be.'

'I appreciate it. I don't think it will be necessary.'

'Perhaps an explanation as to why that is might be a good jumping-in point for all of us.' Po nods toward Sun. 'Please introduce your companion.'

'Presenting Sun Ohayashi.' There's the slightest of edge to Winner's voice. His hand rests protectively on the table between him and Sun. 'We encountered each other in India.'

_'How?'_ one of the Director's aides asks sharply.

'In the usual way one meets another person,' Winner replies, oh-so-mildly. He pauses for the length of a breath. 'Newtypes find one another by the Flash. We met by chance. I was seeking Heero Yuy, not Sun.'

'About Heero Yuy.' Po folds her hands on the table, clicking her stylus on the surface of a case reader. 'No luck?'

'I'm sorry.' Winner even sounds regretful. He turns his head toward Sobrinho on the screen. 'I had come to think that locating Heero would provide some kind of-- resolution. Solution. I now believe the problem itself was non-existent. I've been told, repeatedly, that I'm getting paranoid in my middle years. I'm embarrassed to admit it appears to be a correct assessment.'

There's some nervous laughter at that, quickly stifled. Toru isn't laughing. He may not have seen this side of Winner before, urbane and self-deprecating to an inch of his life, but it feels like a battle in the offing. He's stiff and his blood is up. A glance across the table tells him Dawes and Micheko are having the same reaction. Even Barton looks suspicious.

Winner lets the pause die out naturally. 'I don't think I'm alone in that condition, however,' he says then. His control of the room is so effortless that no-one even protests that, as he gravely meets the Director's gaze through the camera. 'Preventers have been understandably paranoid about Newtypes. You were damaged by Ivan Rzhevsky. We all were. But let's be honest about this situation. I'm sitting here today because Preventers have been unsuccessful in creating their own Newtypes. You need the naturally occurring kind, and that about leaves you with me.'

'I think we might dispute that,' Sally says.

'If you like, but if no-one minds, I'll hold the floor for a moment.' Winner lifts a hand, hesitates. He removes his earbuds and sets them aside. 'So. Given that I seem to be unemployed at the moment, and you seem to be in the market for a Newtype, I thought I'd propose a deal.'

No-one in Preventers has an answer for that for a long minute. Toru smiles grimly. Winner does know how to put on a show.

Po recovers first. She taps her stylus. 'You're a little old for the Academy,' she says dryly.

'Of course,' Winner replies gravely. 'I think we'd all like to avoid that. For a number of humiliating reasons. If I learnt nothing else from travelling India, it's that I'm woefully out of shape. No, I'm proposing something more open-ended. But with a central mission. Locating the rest of the living Newtypes.'

'Mr Winner...' Micheko catches herself speaking out of turn, and bites her lip as all eyes turn to her. 'I just-- I'm sorry. I just didn't think that would be something you would want us to know.'

'Let's say that I've become convinced that it's a cold, dark world out there,' Winner answers. 'I haven't been out in the world since I was rather younger than you, Miss. Younger than Sun. It's a grim place to be alone, as a Newtype. And I've had time to think about the ravages Ivan Rzhevsky left of our community. Or rather the fact that we never had a community to ravage. He was able to kill so many of us because we had no way of warning each other. Because there was no-one to notice when one of us went missing.'

_'I'm not sure I fully understand,'_ Sobrinho says slowly. _'You want Preventers to locate the rest of the Newtypes? You want to do this with-- for-- us?'_

'Yes.' Winner has his hand on Sun's slim wrist now. She's watching him, her thoughts unreadable to anyone but the man sitting next to her. 'Preventers offer the only kind of protection left for my kind. Maybe a day will come when it won't be needed. But not yet. Until then, we need you. And I know there needs to be a trade-off. I'll work with you.'

'So will I,' Sun adds softly.

Toru chews the inside of his cheek, wondering. Koh-i-Noor seems like the best kind of protection, if that's what Winner really wants for Newtypes, and he doesn't for a second think Winner couldn't be locating Newtypes and sending them off in secrecy if that was what he really wanted to do with them. But Koh-i-Noor is a limited resource-- it's a small place and anything that draws attention to it is a threat, ultimately, so maybe Winner just discarded the idea out of hand. Toru doesn't know, and he won't be able to find out until he can get Winner alone, and alone may not mean unwatched for a long time. This is most certainly a ploy, if for no other reason than because it's Quatre Winner making the move. But if it means more than that-- and Toru would give his left arm that it does-- he doesn't know what. Winner won't even look at him.

Po says, 'Forgive me if I seem to be raising objections. I'm not. But I would have believed this out of anyone before I'd expect it out of you, Quatre.'

'We have an unhealthy history, Newtypes and Preventers.' Winner gazes at Sun, and sighs. 'Newtypes and everyone else. The Normals, I've heard you called. Because we were designed to be different, and things that are different-- people who are different-- are difficult to understand, and what's difficult to understand is frightening.' He includes Po and Sobrinho in his eyeline, then, before giving in to the tremble that's begun in his hands, rubbing at his temples. It's a strain after all, so many people. Barton pours him water, and he sips it gratefully. 'I don't say all this just to be obvious,' he says then. 'I lay it out because I want to be clear. It's not just that you fear Newtypes. We fear you. Because we're not the same anymore. But part of that unhealthy history is that it never included a future. Our design was for the short-term. We were single-use weapons, if you will. If I admire anything about Preventers, and I do admire your organisation, it's that you bridge the gap between war and peace. You are more than just the present. You are a purpose than can outlast a cause.'

'That's it, isn't it.' Toru only realises he spoke that aloud when heads turn toward him. His face heats. But Winner meets his eyes for the first time all morning, since they left India really. 'I understand,' he says. 'It's like Ishaq told me. Mr Khosa,' he explains, for the Director and all the senior staffers watching. 'He was the Newtype who helped us find Mr Winner. He talked to me once about loyalty. How important it was to him. Loyalty as a virtue, and a duty, and a service. That's what you mean, Mr Winner, isn't it. You think if the rest of the Newtypes can unite around a single loyalty, it will keep them together.'

'Keep them alive,' Winner says. 'Who knows. It might even keep us happy. Not everyone will want to join you. Some will be hostile. And some won't be capable. But I suspect there's enough left who will grasp with both hands what you offer, if you offer it without handcuffs, without bars on the windows. We fought wars because we believed. Those wars are old memories now. Give us something new to believe in.'

 

**

 

'Lunch,' Toru announces, setting a tray in front of Sun. 'And silverware. And a sparkling water. They were out of flat. Quatre, Mr Barton has yours.'

'What is it?' Sun asks, using her fork to poke curiously at the noodles on her plate.

'Spaghetti bolognese.' Toru snags a chair with his ankle and sinks down, grateful for the rest. 'I thought maybe you wouldn't have had it before. It was always one of my favourites as a kid. It's called “comfort food”.'

'”Comfort food”?' She smiles at him. 'I like that. Thank you.'

Winner is watching their dialogue with a small smile that might be knowing and might just be amused. Toru refuses to blush. _Nothing happened,_ he thinks firmly-- very firmly-- in that direction, and Winner quirks an eyebrow at him. He's spared an audible response by Barton's arrival, bearing a pair of salads. The agent walking behind him sullenly takes up a spot against the wall, none too subtly blocking their way out of the private conference room where they've been exiled for the lunch hour. Winner favours the woman with a long look, then ignores her. He drops his napkin into his lap and unwraps his silverware.

'Productive morning,' he says.

'My left foot,' Toru retorts. 'You should warn people before you pull a stunt like that.'

'That would take the fun out of it, I should think.' Winner collects roughage on the tines of his fork with his knife. 'Treaties should start broad. Begin with a simple agreement that appeals to all sides. Work out the details later. In writing, with lawyers.'

'You'll need an army of those,' Barton mutters, sipping his juice with a baleful expression. 'Or Preventers will make an army of Newtypes.'

'No.' Winner eats all too calmly. 'I think I can prevent that-- excusing the pun. There's a very basic factor that's going to stop us being terribly useful as a group. Age. Almost every Newtype in existence will be too old to be functional. Past the teenaged years, we suffer our irregularities, and even if Preventers dug up every last one of us we could never be deployed usefully amongst the rest of the Normals. We'd be far too disruptive.'

'I don't like that word,' Toru says, uncomfortable even bringing it up. Winner pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, the fork dipping as he reads Toru. 'It's not a-- nice word,' he explains lamely.

'No,' Winner agrees. 'But it is descriptive of the problem.' He takes his bite, and chews slowly. He doesn't speak again, and Toru clears his throat, takes a drink of his water, and leans over the table to pass the pepper to Sun, who listens while giving the impression of somehow knowing where all the discussion is leading. Maybe she does. It would probably be nice not to be surprised by life.

'But very boring,' Winner says. 'Toru. If you can get free tonight, perhaps you could come by? There's a talk you and I have should have before we go much longer.'

'I was supposed to debrief last night. I'll come by if it ends early enough.' Toru tugs on his ponytail. 'Commander will think of that, you know. About not being able to deploy you.'

'It doesn't mean we're without use. And in the end I think Preventers will simply want the knowledge. At this point it's far more important to know definitively even if the knowledge turns out to be solely academic. They'll help find the rest of us to stop another Ivan Rzhevsky doing it first.'

'And I'm going to ask it again,' Barton says. 'Is it really better?'

'That's a terrible thing to ask,' Toru tells him, a little shocked. 'It's better than being murdered one by one by a madman. You met Rzhevsky.'

'I haven't heard that story in total yet,' Winner notes. 'But to your point, Trowa. I don't know. Honestly. Better to die than to be potentially used for ill? Or better to live if we might, potentially, find ourselves useful in something good? I know what I would rather.'

'But you don't know which way it will turn out yet.'

'I know I'd like to try and influence the direction. I know I have a better chance of that if I cooperate now. Preventers aren't completely unreasonable.' Winner smiles at Toru. 'There's a few with good heads on their shoulders.'

'But you're forgetting something,' Barton adds. He's more serious than Toru has ever seen him; not angry, not judging, not even pushing, for once, and Winner stops putting him off then and gives him full attention. They have eyes only for each other, then, and Toru abruptly feels-- shut out. Forgotten, even, when just a moment before he'd been the subject. He blinks, and looks down at his food, only then unwrapping his sandwich, crumbling the crust into the wax paper.

'Rzhevsky's formula,' Barton is saying. And that registers, then, too. Barton doesn't need to speak aloud. He can just think it and Winner will hear him. So this is for his benefit after all. Or Sun's, maybe. She hasn't heard any of this before, and Barton may be warning her, in his oblique way, what she's getting herself into. 'It can be used to bring down any Newtype who doesn't cooperate. That's not purely academic. That's a threat. That's cold, hard persuasion.'

'Yes, it is.'

'And you're going to give away the hiding place of every Newtype on the planet. In the colonies, too? You could end out a traitor with nothing but good intentions.'

Winner sets down his silverware and clasps his hands at his chin. It almost looks like prayer, with his eyes low. Toru glances sideways, and finds Sun watching, just watching, her expression unreadable.

'That's possible,' Winner says finally. 'All I can do is try to be faster. Smarter. But there's no guarantees.'

'Do you actually understand that?' Barton asks drily. 'Sometimes I'm not really sure you do.'

Winner cracks a smile for that. He puts out a hand, and Barton takes it. 'Oh, but I do,' he answers. 'Trust in that.'

'Be goopy on your own time,' Toru tells them, even as he's reluctant to interrupt. 'What's next? Or do I get to be surprised by that, too?'

'Next I make a few offers.' Winner fills his cheeks with air and deflates them slowly. Barton seems to take that as warning, and his face goes cold, unhappy already. 'Sun,' Winner says then, 'the important thing is that you don't agree to anything. Leave that to me.'

'She volunteered,' Barton points out.

'Not technically,' Toru defends her. 'And anyway she doesn't really know what you're talking about.'

'I might,' Sun says mildly. 'If anyone would explain instead of darkly hinting.'

'Tests,' Barton tells her flatly. 'Preventers are going to want both of you laid out in a lab where they can poke and prod you. Quat thinks he can bargain to keep you out of it.'

Sun accepts this with just a lift of her chin. Toru, hesitating, can't really tell her it's not true. It probably is. And Winner probably can make that exact bargain-- they'd rather have one than none, and they'll accept that he's just trying to protect her, and Command will use that to get greater access than Winner would have given without Sun sitting there playing bargaining chip. She may be helping him just by sitting next to him existing, but ultimately she's hurting his ability to stay on top of this game he's playing.

'Maybe,' Winner says. 'Maybe it's time to just accept that the knowledge would be good for everyone. Myself included. I don't really know what I'm fully capable of. I have certain guesses, and so did Rzhevsky...' So, Toru would have laid bets, did all those other Newtypes at Koh-i-Noor, and Winner's no slouch. He would have asked. 'At the end of the day,' Winner goes on, 'I don't really know, and I have no proof. The only way I'll get it is to learn it systematically.'

'In a government lab,' Barton says.

'It's never been free.' Winner covers Barton's hand with his. 'Dekim Barton was merely the devil we knew.'

'The devil you know or the devil you don't.' Barton shakes his head. 'Still devils, Quat.'

'Then we'll fight,' Winner says simply.

Toru swallows a bite of sandwich that suddenly tastes as dry as sawdust, and tries to tell himself that wasn't as alarming as it sounded.

 

**

 

They resume promptly at one, taking their seats in the secured conference room. Winner has his iPod at higher volume, now, the long day around so many people starting to drain him. No-one looks especially fresh, though, and there's some grim faces across the table, on the screen. Director Sobrinho wears a poker face, inscrutable.

_'We're prepared to enter into an agreement today,'_ Sobrinho opens. _'An exchange, as you say. We've consulted with the Executive Office of the President and we have the discretion to undertake a fact-finding period of two weeks to outline what would be involved in locating the remaining Newtypes.'_

'I understand,' Winner replies. 'That seems a very reasonable beginning.'

_'Depending on the outcomes of that analysis, we tentatively agree to devote the appropriate resources to this operation. Obviously this includes funding, training, intelligence analysts as well as ground agents, and facilities in some agreeable central location where Newtypes can be brought.'_

Barton's already stirring. It doesn't sound promising, but Winner doesn't protest it. 'Of course,' he says, smoothly unsurprised. 'While some may be living undisturbed in their communities, as Mr Khosa was, some will likely require the care of a physician. Housing, even. I assume provisions will be made to differentiate between the capabilities of those we encounter.'

_'I'll leave that question to the training provided to our agents,'_ Sobrinho tells him. _'The reality is that you cannot be present for every single encounter with every Newtype. You'll have to prepare us to approach each Newtype and trust us to use appropriate judgment.'_

'Trust us to try,' Po amends, and Winner inhales and nods once. 'The benefit of a central location,' she adds, 'is that you could be there. You'd be able to meet them there and talk them through it. As you say, some will be highly functioning. Some won't. We'll take it into account.'

'Yes.'

_'Long-term,'_ Sobrinho continues, _'Preventers cannot act as caregiver for those incapable of caring for themselves. Provision will have to be made to make those individuals wards of the state.'_

'I'd like to explore private options as well as federal.'

Sobrinho waves that aside. _'That's for the future. A future that may or may not proceed, depending on the results of the next two weeks. Now, to a separate matter: your immunity agreement. After discussion with Commander Po, we've agreed to continue pursuing it with the President.'_

Winner hesitates, his tongue wetting his lower lip. 'For both myself and Trowa Barton,' he half-asks, half-states.

'Yes,' Po says. 'My sense of the situation here is that we're going to run aground on several of the same concerns you had going into our working relationship when it concerned interrogating Ivan Rzhevsky. I'd like to get those concerns out of the way now. You'll have full prosecutorial immunity for anything that was done or will be done. Whatever laws were on the books in the past, whatever laws may be on the books in the future, you'll be free men.'

Toru sees the movement out of the corner of his eye. Winner taking Barton's hand on the table. That doesn't really surprise him. All in all, he thinks Winner doesn't really worry too much what will happen to himself, but Barton is his weak spot. And Barton just got a clean slate-- not from the war, but from the Haddad Rebellion. Whatever secret they're protecting there, it's safe, now. Not a bad day's work, even if Winner is giving up all his cards in the process.

'Thank you,' Winner says, when his voice is under control again. 'I appreciate that.'

'With that on the table,' Po says, 'we can expect full disclosure?'

'When you have a document ready, I'll sign it.' Winner nods to Sobrinho. 'All my knowledge of Newtypes is yours.'

And there it is. New _types_. Not New _tykes_. Toru bites his lips together to stop a smile. Winner walked them right into a corner and got it in writing and they don't even know yet they've happily taken only half the pie. He has to hide his mouth with his hand to cover his grin. God. It was worth watching, anyway. Definitely worth watching.

Po calls him to her office after they break for the day. He has to wait in the hall for almost a half hour, but he doesn't mind. The quiet is nice. He leans on the wall and doesn't think very much. Life is funny, sometimes. He's a million years from where he thought he'd be, personally, professionally, approaching, he realises suddenly, his nineteenth birthday. And yet he's almost exactly where he expected to be. Standing outside his commander's office, waiting for the next order. His first full year as a Preventer. He solved a major case. He brought in a major lead for an operation that will probably last years. It's not a bad accomplishment. He's not really sure how he feels about it. Not wholly good. He's never felt like his world was small, exactly, or sheltered; he grew up in the palm of Sphere-wide politics, even if he hadn't been able to name them that, and by the age of five he'd been ripped out of his home because his parents were people like Quatre Winner. People who made choices, people who'd already made the most important choice they could, people who felt battles in the air before everyone else and reached for a weapon when everyone else just bowed to pressure.

He'd accepted it, he realised. Somewhere on the flight home from Koh-i-Noor, finding Winner again, finding Sun, exploding his not-small world into a world even bigger than every before just this morning. Not just Newtypes. Not just Newtypes and their children. Us and Them no more. Quatre Winner was out there re-arranging the known universe and Toru would go along with it, would help where he could. He'd accepted it. Where even last night it had made him feel unbearably sad, right now... right now he could look on that and realise it had been one last gasp, one last protest, and he was done regretting it. His parents had made a choice. He knew they'd grieved losing him. He knew it because it was human, and because they'd loved him. That was all he'd probably ever know about it, but it was enough. Heero Yuy had let his daughter go because he couldn't stop her. His parents had let him go because they didn't want to drag him down with them. Both had been impossible choices. But they were parents, and they'd done the best they could in a bad situation.

'Toru?'

He looks up. 'Sorry,' he says. 'I'm sorry-- I didn't hear you calling.'

Po is standing in her doorway, one hand on the latch. 'It's all right,' she answers. 'You doing okay? Did you get dinner yet?'

'No.' He straightens his jacket, ducks past her when she moves for him. 'Just been hanging around.'

'We'll keep it short.' Po sits on the edge of her desk, not in her chair. Toru, about to sit, doesn't, and locks himself into parade rest instead. She shuffles through files on her desk, old paper files on top and her e-reader on the bottom, and pulls that up to her thigh. 'What were your impressions today?'

'Impressions?' He doesn't automatically stall-- it just sort of happens. 'Um, of whom? Winner? You mean do I think he's being honest?'

'Sure. We'll start with that.'

'Um-- yes. I do. I think when he says he'll tell us everything about the Newtypes that it's true.'

'Do you have a sense for why he's made this turn-about?' Po clinks her fingernails on the reader's leather portfolio, dull taps. 'If I'm being honest myself, that's where it strikes me as off. I can believe he was scared by having to go out there on his own, but not so scared he'd have such a huge change of attitude.'

'No. No, I guess that's true. He wasn't that, um, emotional about it.'

'Well? Anything for me?'

Toru sucks in his cheeks, and bites them. 'All right. As far as I can tell, or at least assume, it's his ability. He's using his ability somehow, to weigh his options. This isn't an emotional choice. It's an intellectual one. They almost always are with Quatre. It's weighing the options in front of him and choosing the one that gives him the most room to maneouvre.'

'His ability-- his Newtype ability?'

'I think so. From observing him.'

Po nods at this, her eyes abstracted as she thinks it through. 'I can deal with that,' she decides. 'And I'm glad you put it like that. An intellectual choice. That clarifies certain things. What about Barton? Do you know where Barton fits into that?'

Toru shrugs awkwardly. 'Barton's the emotional factor,' he says. 'He didn't expect us to pick up Barton. Or for Barton to make whatever moves he's making. I don't know if they're resuming their relationship. But whatever this is, Barton's almost like... almost like a reward for making the right choice. Quatre would have done it anyway, but Barton's here and supporting him for once, and I think he's taking it as validation.'

'That's a good assessment.' Po makes a note in her reader. 'You've been closest to them. Your insight is valuable right now.' She angles her eyes up to him. 'And I'm glad you're being open about sharing. I'm not trying to rub it in, but as your commander, you know it's a problem when you get secretive.'

'I've never tried to deliberately hide anything from you,' he says, pricked by that. 'Moment to moment I haven't always--'

'Toru. Just take the advice.'

He sets his jaws together. He nods tightly.

'What about the girl? Ohayashi? What's the story with her?'

So much for not hiding. Caught in a lie, he doesn't actually know what to say. 'I think she's pretty much what she looks like,' he says. 'She and Winner seem to be kind of attached to each other. I don't know what got said before we caught up with them.'

'Do you know what her ability is?'

'She says she doesn't have a label for it. I haven't really seen her do anything.'

'You've been getting close to her. What about last night?'

There's no way that news travelled that quickly. He feels his face go blank. He can't think of anything to say. 'Nothing happened,' he mumbles, an increasingly useless protest.

'It may be too soon for her to let her guard down.' Po lets her reader rest to the desk with a sigh. 'I would have thought you were too young for a honey trap. Walker tells me you're doing an effective job, though.'

It takes a minute to figure that out. Honey trap. Po thinks he's running a honey trap on Sun. Getting close to her to get information out of her. And she thinks that because Walker told her he was doing that. Micheko-- what, told Po he spent the night with Sun as part of some plan? Was she covering his ass or--

Suddenly his face is flaming. 'Um,' he says.

Po smiles tolerantly, as if he were a little boy. 'Sometimes it's easy to forget you're growing up,' she says. 'Well, keep at it. I'd like a little independent verification for anything Quatre tells us about our mysterious new Newtype. Now, Khosa. Tell me you at least tried to find him after he ran?'

His hands feel numb. He squeezes them into fists. 'Yeah,' he says.

'Well.' Po circles her desk to the big chair and sits down. 'Maybe we'll be able to locate him again, once we get Winner in action.' She picks up her phone and puts the receiver to her ear. 'Stay close to Winner and Ohayashi. Let's see where the next two weeks go.'

'Yes, sir.' He manages a sloppy salute, but Po's not watching. He's dismissed.

He makes it out into the hall again with both feet going in the right direction, but he loses his aim once he's got the door shut. His mood has gone flat. Flat and cold. Why it hurts, why it even surprises him, he doesn't know. He's too young to run a honey trap, is he, but not too young to be set up for one. So Micheko covered for him, came up with a story that excused his presence in Sun's room overnight, and earned him points in the doing, but she's only able to do it because Po set Micheko on him begin with, because it's Micheko's job to report on him, to explain his suspicious behaviour. Everything about it feels-- dirty. And awful. And maddening.

He takes the stairs instead of the lifts, for the sheer exertion of muscle movement. Ignores the tram across the base, the car in the lot waiting for him. He walks. It's hot enough, with the arrival of summer, to rip off his coat. His sense of the seasons is messed up, the way he's been travelling lately, but he barely notices now. All he wants is movement.

He winds up back at his barrack. He still hasn't been to his suite, since returning. He goes now, only because he can't think of what else to do. He isn't hungry in the least, but he could probably do with a proper shower, and a rest. He finds his luggage delivered as promised, undisturbed beside the door. He notes that only his name is on the nameplate now; his roommate Hitchens must have moved on to another assignment. He'd barely got to know the man. Or his last two before Hitchens. He probably won't pay much attention to the next one. He keys in his pin and enters.

It's only when he's standing in a damp towel over the sink shaving that he remembers he'd told Winner he would drop by. So civilised, as if Winner weren't effectively locked down. He should probably check on Sun, too, whatever it's going to look like to Po. He nicks the skin of his neck, thinking instead of watching himself. A drop of his blood splatters the sink. Newtyke blood. He smears it with a finger, and sighs.

He dresses in sweats for the trek, a running shirt with a velcro-strap pocket for his badge. He wraps his wet hair in a fresh elastic from a new pack, looks at the bed he hasn't slept in for so long he doesn't actively remember it, and surmises that he doesn't really miss it all that much anyway.

Winner's still got double guards outside his door, armed and ready, but the men seem to be studiously looking at anything but the door behind them when Toru trots up the stairs. 'Agent Craft,' Toru identifies himself, removing his badge to show them. 'Everything all right in there?'

The older of the two agents rubs his neck. 'They two civies are in there together,' he explains, apparently pained. 'They've been, uh...'

'Busy,' the other one finishes.

'Busy?'

The younger one makes a gesture that leaves no doubt what he means. Toru rubs his own face as it heats. 'Uh,' he says. 'Yeah. Are they, um, busy now?'

The elder knocks on the door. 'Visitor,' he calls. 'Go in at your own risk, Craft. And can you tell them-- the walls are like paper here, you know?'

'I'll tell them. I can't guarantee they'll stop, but I'll tell them.' Toru steps between them and opens the door. 'Mr Winner?' he says. 'Mr Barton?' He enters, and shuts the door quickly.

_Busy_ probably doesn't really cover the extent of it. There's more of the bedding on the floor than on the mattress. Winner's on his back, Barton on top of him, and though the kissing isn't terribly loud, it's definitely leading somewhere. Winner's hand down Barton's trousers is moving determinedly.

Toru clears his throat. At volume. 'Excuse me,' he says.

'Shit,' Barton spits out, while Winner merely jumps and knocks his head against the headboard.

'They can hear you in the hall,' Toru informs them, and heads for the window. He checks out the curtains. There's security stationed on the grounds below. He'd thought that might end, now that they had an agreement with Winner. Maybe once they had all the signatures in the right place.

Barton has slumped sideways on the mattress and lays there with his head buried in the sheet, curled unmoving around his vulnerable middle. Winner sits up, well-mussed and cheerily unembarrassed by it. He does fluff his shirt out over his trousers, and rubs his fingers tenderly through Barton's hair before he rises.

'You're not actually his dad, you know,' Toru hears Barton mutter. 'You don't have to apologise for getting caught having sex.'

'Who's apologising?' Winner bends to kiss the back of his neck. 'Go take a shower. We need to talk, anyway, and I can't do that if you're thinking the way you're thinking.'

'Whose fault is that?' Barton hunches to his feet and shuffles in the direction of the bath. He doesn't look back. The door slams them out.

Winner is grinning when he joins Toru at the window. He drops his elbows to the tall concrete sill, gazing out. Not down, at the people guarding him below, but out, at the sun setting behind all the buildings, leaving everything pink and orange. 'Military bases are always so ugly,' he says. 'But it's rather nice here, isn't it.'

'I guess.' Toru props an arm against the wall. He can hear the water turn on in the bath. The walls really are pretty thin. 'You two seem to be doing well.'

Winner tosses a quick bright smile in his direction. 'Self-evidently.'

'And you don't mind that anyone in listening distance knows?' He doesn't entirely mean that sarcastically. He picks at a rough spot on the wall plaster. 'Commander knows. You two are kind of putting on a show. It just seems like giving away information for free.'

'There's some things that are too difficult to hide.' Winner turns to put his back to the wall. He's wearing his cotton Indian tunic again, not the suit he had on for his confrontation with Preventers command earlier. With his shorn hair and alert eyes he looks younger than ever. Happier.

'Yes,' Winner agrees. 'I think so. I don't know how long it will last, but I am. Blindingly happy, in an odd way.'

'Because of Barton.' Toru accidentally pulls down a strip of paint, and stops picking at the wall. 'What's going to happen with the boyfriend? Mr MacLeod?'

Winner loses a bit of his light. 'I don't know,' he admits. 'Maybe Trowa will ask him to join in with us. I don't think Trowa would object to threes.' When Toru makes a face, Winner laughs softly. 'Probably not.'

'You will have to think about it eventually.'

'Yes.' Winner drops his head back to the wall. 'It's a sad thing, that one man's happiness should ruin another's. All these years I've told myself I had no right to be jealous. I even bought one of Ewin's sculptures, you know. Some kind of bird, crane, thing. I donated it to St John's.'

'That thing out in the back garden? It's big.'

'Yes.' Winner's eyes fall on the door of the efficiency. He gives himself a shake. 'You talked with your Commander?'

'Yes.' Winner points him to the little table, and they sit together. 'It wasn't much of a debrief. I'm out of the doghouse.'

'You're too good an agent. And she wants you working for her, not against her. She's had time to realise that she'll have better luck with you if she uses a carrot, rather than a stick.'

'You read that off her?'

'No. But I did lead, even if briefly, once upon a time.' Winner drops his chin into his hand. 'You're in a precarious position. Poised between Preventers and Newtypes. I wanted to tell you that it shouldn't be that way. I don't want you in conflict any more than Commander Po. It's not fair to you. You've done so much more than I could have imagined, Toru. More than enough.'

'So-- you don't want me to help you anymore?'

'I don't want to accidentally create a double agent,' Winner explains. 'You know enough to verge on that. So I want to say this. My loyalty is to you. It should not be the other way round. I will protect myself, and Sun, and you. And you will protect yourself just by doing your job. If there is ever any conflict in that, let me resolve it.'

'Quatre.' Toru rubs his bare arms, flattens his hands to the tabletop. 'I don't... Koh-i-Noor...'

'Koh-i-Noor is as much fantasy as reality. It's the proverbial city upon a hill. The shining example. But it works because it is removed from the world.'

'And you don't think it should be like that.'

'I've seen a lot of men come and go with ideas about the world that involve creating a static little seal between humanity and progress. No. I don't think it should be like that. Koh-i-Noor was beautiful and I'm gladder than I can say to know it exists. To know the comfort it's given so many people. Our friend Ishaq included. But it's only a half-measure. Like Newtypes. A step that only exists until something newer and better can be brought along.'

Given those thin walls, Toru very carefully does not say it aloud. _The Newtykes._

Winner nods.

_Sun has an ability._ He swallows, to wet his throat. _She can see things, she says. About people. Is that true?_

Winner nods again.

_And her mother has an ability. The shield._

Winner nods one more time.

_And... me. I have an ability, too._

'Yes. I think you do. I think you're using it right now. No-one else can communicate with me the way you're doing. Not even Trowa. When he thinks at me, I get feelings, impressions, maybe the occasional word. With you-- remarkable clarity.'

Toru glances at the main door. _Maybe it's just that I figured it out better._

'Maybe. But I doubt it. And let's not forget that you called to me. Twice.'

'I didn't. I don't even know how to.'

'And yet I heard you. Across continents. And I think you could learn to do more.'

Toru stares down at his hands for a long time in silence. Long enough for the water in the bath to shut off, and Barton to emerge, coming to sit on the bed in a towel, watching him not speak. But he doesn't know what to say. Winner's given him a lot to think about. Loyalty. Choosing. Knowledge for the sake of knowledge.

At the end of it-- he would rather know than not. Whatever happens after.

He lets out a breath. 'Okay,' he says. 'Where do we start?'


	22. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No Newtype is going to be free of an armed guard for the foreseeable future, and that's something Toru helped make possible. Helped make inevitable. Maybe there's a debate to be had that all the Newtypes left are more dangerous, or at least in more danger, if they're alone and unprotected, but there's one certain thing. They won't be free, now._

'One more sample is the limit,' Po cautions. 'And eat that cookie. Your blood sugar is going to drop hard.'

Winner obediently breaks the edge off a macadamia nut biscuit between his teeth. The nurse filling vacutainer tubes with his blood drops the last two into her tray, and removes the needle. Micheko steps in to press a cotton swab to the crook of Winner's elbow.

'Thank you, dear,' Winner says, his voice a crushed, weary whisper.

Po retreats through the sheer curtain and comes up the hall. Toru is waiting there, fifty feet up the corridor-- out of Winner's range, and impatient with it. 'How's he doing?' he asks, trying to sound casual, as if he hasn't been waiting all morning without a damn update.

'It's interesting,' Po comments, dropping onto the sofa beside him. 'He was clearly doing better with the girl here. Once we removed her, he declined pretty sharply.'

And himself. Toru's been staying just out of range. It was Winner's idea, to test it faithfully, if privately. The excuse they've given is that Toru might inadvertantly help, just by virtue of knowing Winner best out of the agents. He's been crawling out of his skin all day. Winner's been practising reading minds behind walls, picking cards out of decks, trying to determine if he can pick out a stranger agent's identity without seeing them. Toru's been taking notes. From a distance. Impatiently.

'So Sun really is helping him.' Toru sits slowly. 'Has he said anything about the how?'

'We haven't dwelt on the issue yet. But I'm mindful of how he acted around Rzhevsky. He made it through two lengthy interviews without acting like he's acting now.' Po pulls out her hairclips and scratches through her scalp. 'If the presence of other Newtypes really does even out the issues, then we'll be in good shape when we start gathering together new ones. He'll be a natural leader. And he'll be able to explain what's happening to them. Why it's a good thing.'

'So we're going ahead with his plan?'

'Our plan,' Po corrects him meaningfully. 'Preventers are putting out the resources here, let's keep that firmly in mind. And no, we're not set yet. Today has been interesting, but we're only six hours in. Let's see how we look two weeks from now.'

'Can we bring Sun back inside, then? Give him a respite?'

'Let's hold off. I'm not doing it to hurt him, but let's take our opportunity in one gulp. I'd like to find the limit on this without exposing him over multiple days. We know what we're observing this time and we have controlled environments. Let's collect as much data as we can today, and if we have to extrapolate then, we'll be able to do it more accurately.'

Toru subsides unhappily at that, knowing she's right. There's no way of knowing for sure what it will look like if they let this go too long, but if Barton's stories were anything like reality, it's entirely possible it could kill. And if all it takes to walk the edge is a few hours out of range from Newtykes, then Toru is happy to abandon the quest for knowledge and go back to safely observing the limits.

'I've been looking at the Newtype profile,' he says then. 'And comparing it to Rzhevsky's kill list and the list of cities he went through already. The demographics are kind of interesting. It looks like the majority of Newtypes are white. And probably the majority of the Newtypes left alive are male and older, or non-reproductive, like Quatre. Rzhevsky took out mostly women of child-bearing age.'

'Well, before we realised he was targeting Newtypes, we did think he was just after homeless women.' Po takes his e-reader to study his report. 'Why white?'

'Privilege? Money? The outliers seem to come from specific population centres. The colonies especially.'

'Earth would have meant Alliance, or OZ, which would have meant the old monied families.' Po nods slow agreement. 'Euro-centric, or the old imperial wealth. It gives us one more data-point to consider.' She hands back his reader. 'What's the girl's twitch?'

'Pardon?'

'Ohayashi. Quatre has the over-empathy problem, Khosa had nightmares. What's Ohayashi got? Do we need to make provision for her?'

It would be nice if Po thought of it on her own. Or if he trusted her to have good reason for it. He doesn't, not really, but he takes a breath and doesn't let himself dwell on it. 'Don't know yet. Right now, about all I can tell is that she misses home.'

'Home? India? She came voluntarily.'

'Everyone misses home, Commander.'

Po relents at that. 'I suppose. Do we know yet if she has family?'

Toru treads carefully here. 'Her ID never turned up in the records. It's probably, uh, I think it's probably fake. When you think about it, it's sort of surprising that more Newtypes didn't turn to a false identity. An awful lot of them never bothered.'

'They were proud of their cause,' Po says. She's not looking at Toru when she says it; she's gazing up the corridor, in Winner's direction, but her eyes aren't focussed. 'The wars changed everything. You wouldn't even recognise the world I was born into. I'm glad of that. So are the Newtypes. The ones who are still sane enough, I guess.'

'Then you think Quatre's plan will work. Bringing them in to Preventers.'

'I don't know.' She sighs out hard and stands. 'Some days I wake up thinking we're all relics. But maybe there are some things that really should die out, Toru.'

His tongue doesn't move fast enough to answer that one. She's gone before he can, anyway.

An hour before supper he leaves the medical facility and heads up two storeys to find Barton. Barton is babyminding Sun, or at least that's what it looks like; he's got a collection of newspapers and a television nearby, but one watchful eye is on her, as she wanders the waiting room poking into cabinets, trying out the remote controls, adjusting the curtains over the windows, staring out over the cityscape.

'Bored?' Toru asks, closing the door behind him.

'How is Quatre?' Sun replies, before Barton can beat her to it. Barton purses his lips and doesn't repeat her, but it's there in his face.

'We'll only make a few more hours.' Toru pulls out a chair to sit in. 'He's hurting. But it's been good data. It's not wasted effort.'

'You know he's lying,' Barton points out. 'When he says he's okay to go on.'

'Every agent in that room, myself included, is waiting for the sign that it's time to quit.' Toru keys up the case file into the screen on the wall and loads the lateset video. 'Rzhevsky told us that emotion makes a difference. That's what we're trying now. Whether triggers affect Quatre's abilities.'

Barton sits forward to watch, a frown on his face. 'What's the medic doing?'

'We started with hypnosis. The mind is more suggestible. Then we worked through some-- um-- significant memories.' Micheko is on the screen, sitting on the bed with Winner's hand in hers. That had been Toru's idea. He truly wasn't motivated by thoughts of revenge, but he feels a twinge anyway, watching her expression go from stoic to braced as she has to concentrate over and over on her father's death. Winner plucks the pain right out of her mind, four times in a row. Guilt. The details are all as fresh as if Enis Walker were in the room himself: the way he put his wedding band on his dogtag chain before battle, the letters he left his wife and infant daughter in case the worst ever happened, the back injury that led to chronic pain and should have washed him out, until Colonel Merquise himself stamped the temporary stay. Merquise sent him into battle. Against two Gundams, Zero Three and Zero Four. Enis Walker died leading the counter-attack, when he might have lived if he'd been at his best.

It's going to be generations before all the tangled debts die out, Toru thinks, and wonders if that's what Po meant, earlier.

'That's nothing he hasn't done before,' Barton says then. 'He can read people he knows.'

'We were just establishing the trigger.' Toru fast-forwards. Micheko is standing now, beside the bed, and Winner is rigid in it, eyes closed, every line of him tense. There's no glow, and it's bothered Toru all day. He takes the opportunity now, in private with Sun, to pause the video and ask the only other person who can reasonably inform him why. He says to her, 'Can you see it? The glow?'

Barton looks at him sharply. Sun only raises an eyebrow. 'Not right now,' she says. 'It's only there when they're using their abilities to connect somehow with another Newtype.'

'So that's the difference? Quatre and I were never sure why I could see it sometimes but not others. Like when he was with Rzhevsky, but not with the dead Newtypes. When Ishaq used his ability to try and locate Quatre through the letter, but not when Quatre and Ishaq were just standing and talking together.' He taps the remote, thinking back to all the times he's seen it. 'The morning in the pool in London. He was using his ability to try and find Rzhevsky. He says he didn't, but I saw him glow. That's the one that's thrown everything off. It was the first time, but it was never consistent with anything after. So what made that time different? Or was he just not telling the truth?'

'Pursue the mystery later,' Barton says flatly. 'Turn on the video.'

Sun catches his eyes with a little smirk. Toru can laugh a little, then. He presses 'play' on the keyboard.

Micheko stands beside the bed, and Winner is in it, concentrating for all he's got. Then Micheko puts a book in his hands.

'What's that?'

'His mother's flower book,' Toru tells Barton. 'The one you brought from Paris.'

'What's he doing with it?'

'Attempting Ishaq Khosa's ability. He's trying to envision his mother.'

'Did it work?'

'Watch the video.'

It takes an excruciatingly long time, compared to Khosa. Winner clutches the book, sweat breaking out on his forehead, dripping down his nose. But just when Micheko shifts to touch him, he sucks in an explosive breath, and says, _'She kept all the infant clothes in the attic, with rose petals pressed in the tissue.'_

Barton blinks, his face going blank-- his version of a poker face, Toru thinks. 'He didn't know her. There's no way to verify it.'

'But he wouldn't make it up, either.' Toru rolls his neck to crack it. 'It's a start. When Ishaq attempted to do what Rzhevsky did, he wasn't sure about his success, either. I don't think any Newtype knows for sure what they're really doing in the beginning. But if they really do have the ability to-- the ability to use each other's abilities-- at the very least we'll need a better vocabulary for it. But it's probably like any other skill. You hone the ones you're better at, but you don't neglect the ones you're only indifferent with. I don't love maths, but I need to know how to use them.'

'I don't need the analogy. I understand you.' Barton sits back in his chair, his mouth turned down at Winner's image on the screen. 'Bottom line. Preventers will use this.'

Toru rubs his chin, and shrugs one shoulder. 'Bottom line-- probably. But I'm guessing Quatre will, too. And I'll eat my shoe if he means to do it solely for Preventers' benefit.'

'You know he's got some fairly wild ideas about evolution at the moment.' Barton includes Sun in his gaze, abruptly. 'That people like you will be able to do what he's doing without any of the effort or the cost. That eventually you'll breed it into the general populace.'

'It stands to reason, doesn't it,' Sun says calmly, or calmly enough anyway that Toru is suddenly quite certain she's heard this before, and not from Barton. Toru wonders one more time what really compelled Sun to make her gamble with them. He starts to weigh coincidence less and less, and Quatre Winner more and more.

'At the end of the day, Zero was all about survival,' Toru says, and gets a pair of sharp looks of his own. 'Well, wasn't it? It may have been just a programme, but it needed a pilot. And it did anything it had to, to keep that pilot alive. Which makes Zero pretty much like any other organism out there, relying on its basest instinct. Going with the theory that Zero and Quatre's ability operate in similar ways, I'd say Quatre's finally looking to the one thing that ensures the Newtype survives. Diversifying the gene pool and increasing the skill range of the individuals in community.' He turns off the video and disconnects his reader. 'All of which makes it pretty remarkable, that he lived through St John's for all those years. He told me once he believed the Newtype should just die out naturally. Or that Preventers should be happy that Ivan Rzhevsky spared us the search. When you think about it, the effort of surpressing his drive to survive and thrive must have been monumental. No wonder it was driving him crazy.'

There's just the tiniest flicker of doubt in Barton's eyes, at that. 'He only survived because of St John's.'

'If you say so.' Toru finds menus and pens in his pockets. 'I almost forgot. I'm supposed to get your dinner orders. You can have anything you want, as long as it's free from the cafeteria.'

 

**

 

They call it quits forty minutes after midnight.

'I can't sleep here,' Winner rasps, his lips so dry he can barely speak. 'Too many... too many people.'

'Let's get you back to the barracks.' Toru gestures to Micheko. 'Can you grab us a vehicle? Let's move him as fast as we can.'

Sun and Barton help Winner with the stairs at the barracks, trailed at a distance, though not a long enough distance, by the armed guards. Toru watches it unhappily, wishing they could get that order countermanded. Having anyone in range is going to make the night more painful.

Micheko may not be a mindreader, but she's got enough experience to anticipate what he's thinking. 'I'll head home,' she tells him. 'No-one's expecting him at any particular hour tomorrow. I don't think you or I will be as lucky.'

'Thanks for keeping him calm today. He likes you.' Toru hesitates on the stairs. 'You did okay, too?'

She looks drawn. Maybe it's the late hour. Maybe it's everything the day dredged up. Sitting with her father's killer, even if she's claimed she doesn't really blame him. 'It's the job,' she says finally. 'We all do our job.'

'Yeah.' Toru bites both cheeks, and just lets himself do it. He puts a hand on her arm and squeezes it. 'See you tomorrow.'

'Right. Yeah.' Her mouth lifts tentatively, not quite a smile. 'Good night.'

'Night.' He turns his back before she does, awkward at it. He climbs the stairs quickly.

Inside Winner's suite, it's quiet and dim. Toru lets himself in with a brief knock. 'Do you need anything?' he asks.

'Migraine meds,' Barton tells him. 'He's running low.'

'I'll put in an order tomorrow. Does he have enough for tonight?'

'If he has to ration, he has to ration, I guess.' Barton strokes Winner's shorn head in his lap, tracing a tense brow with a tan finger. 'Quat? You want to try and knock it out now, or hold out?'

Winner swallows, grimacing. 'Hold out.'

'Knock it out,' Toru advises, fetching the bottle from the table and opening it for another tab. 'You might be able to sleep if you deal with the headache faster. Sun can stay. I can stay, if it will help.'

'You must have--' Winner takes the tab Toru presses to his fingers, slipping it in and sipping from a water bottle. 'Somewhere else to be. Your own rest to chase.'

'I'm young,' Toru says blithely. 'I can sleep on top of a jet engine.'

'Liar.' Winner subsides as Barton resumes stroking his hair. 'Thank you,' he murmurs, subdued. 'It helps.'

There are blankets in the linen cupboard. Toru installs Sun on the small couch, covering her with a nubby standard-issue quilt, and putting a spare bedpillow behind her head. He crouches by her as she settles sleepily. 'Tomorrow I'll see if we can get you out of here a bit,' he says. 'Maybe out into the city. I don't think I can promise it, but we'll try not to keep you cooped up.'

She takes his hand. 'You don't have to take care of all of us.'

'Someone does.' He takes his own pillow and blanket to the corner out of the way, stopping at the light panel. 'Everyone ready?'

'Yeah,' Barton answers, sliding down the bed to curl himself about Winner, a protective arm wrapping him tight. 'Thanks.'

He acknowledges what might be the first voluntary admission of gratitude between them with just a dip of his head. He turns off the light, and lays himself flat, kicking off his shoes, rolling himself up in the blanket. The floor is too hard to lay on his side, crunching his shoulder, so he goes flat on his back, flips to his stomach. A passing itch distracts him, then fades.

He turns his head toward the dark outline of the bed against the wall, the occupants on it. He thinks toward it, _Don't reveal too much too fast. It's scary enough for Barton, and he knows you. If Preventers realise how much you can do, they might decide it's too dangerous to have you teaching others._

He can't tell for sure if Winner's eyes are open. But he's sure he heard.

 

**

 

He has strange dreams that night. Walking, and walking, and walking, but never getting anywhere. He wakes with a headache, and sighs out, annoyed. Not much of a home coming.

Barton is sprawled out on the bed, snoring ever so slightly. Sun is curled into a ball on the couch. Toru fixes her blanket to cover her. It's barely five. He's all out of time zones, and his body isn't happy about it. He stretches his arms high, bends to touch his toes, curling his fingers around them. Oh. Winner's shoes are gone from the pile at the door. And Winner is not in the bed with Barton.

He steps into the hall, easing the door quietly shut behind him. 'Morning,' he tells a sleepy-eyed agent. 'Where's your partner?'

'With the Newtype, outside.' She nods toward the stairs. 'They went down about a half-hour ago. He asked if he could leave you a note, but we didn't have any paper.'

'If we're going to sustain this situation for much longer, we should probably start thinking of details like that.' Toru cracks his neck. 'I'll come back up for the other two. Tell them to stay inside until then.'

He finds Winner on a bench in what passes for the quad. The grass is mostly dead, the bushes utilitarian rather than decorative. The air is chilly, and damp, but for a man who spent most of his life in the middle of no-where with full freedom of movement, it's probably preferable to a tiny room guarded by a man with a gun. He has to imagine Winner is wondering how long he'll have to live with this. If he'll always have to live with this, now, the choices he's making.

Toru eases down next to him. 'Hi,' he says. 'You doing okay?'

'I'm fine.' Winner pats his wrist. 'Me and my shadow.'

Toru nods at the agent who's standing fifteen feet away, hand not all that far away from his gun. 'Did you say something to him? He's acting a little twitchy.'

'I may have observed that he left the oven on at start of shift.'

'You didn't have to do that,' Toru says, tolerant at first and then thinking better of it. 'You're deliberately doing it. You never pushed on Dawes or Walker like that. You're going to burn some goodwill playing games like that.'

'Probably,' Winner admits. He turns his face into a sliver of orange sunrise peeking through the clouds. 'But it's going to happen one way or another. Your folk will have to get used to us. And not all Newtypes will be willing or able to restrain themselves politely for the comfort of others. Better Preventers gain an understanding of what that means while they've got time to adjust their attitudes.'

'Your gamble, I guess.' Toru bends to drop his elbows to his knees. 'How are you feeling?'

'Better. Head's tolerable.' Winner exhales slowly behind him. 'How are you doing with all of this? With Sun?'

'With myself, you mean.'

'I'd understand if you said you were shaken.'

'Maybe at first. I think I'm getting numb to it.' He straightens again, puts his back to the bench. Dew soaks his shirt in stripes, but he just shrugs uncomfortably and ignores it. 'You really-- never mind.'

'I didn't know.' Winner says it quietly. 'I swear that to you. Until I found Koh-i-Noor I wasn't even sure that it could be passed from parent to child.'

The sun is starting to peep through the buildings. Limn the brick with rose. Toru fills his lungs with cool morning air, and releases it. 'Tell me why Sun is here. Really.'

'No.' Winner denies him quietly. 'If she has reasons other than what she's told you, it's for her to say.'

'But you know.'

'I know what I know about any of you. What you choose to tell me, and maybe a little more.'

'Can you read her? The way you read me?'

'Not the way I read you, no. Perhaps as well as Trowa. More clearly than someone without a Newtype inheritance.'

'You know, we never really had that talk. About all of this-- stuff.'

'No.' Winner props an elbow on the bench, twisting to face him head-on. 'So let's do that.'

'What-- now? Right here?'

'It's as private as it's going to get. We won't cover everything, but we can start. We should start.' Winner is calm, but Toru sucks in another breath, coughs on it. 'You know,' Winner says, 'when I was your age, I was quite ill. My sister, Iraia, is a doctor. She treated me as best she could, but she couldn't hide the truth from me.' He taps his temple. 'I knew because she knew. I was going to die. I told Trowa I wanted him to live on without me... oh, I said the usual mawkish things young people say in such dramatic situations. You know how it ended, any rate. We drove, and the place we ended at was St John's. The John Cabot Centre for Recovery.' Winner purses his lips, his frank gaze falling away for just a moment before he lifts his head again. 'I thought I was going there to fade out from this life, end my time in a last gasp of peace. But a day passed, and another, and a week, and then two. I sat on the garden bench, just like this, and realised I was going to live. But at what cost. The magic was in isolation. As long as I lived like a caged beast, I could survive.'

'But that isn't true. You've been able to leave.'

'Have I?' Winner cocks his head. 'You're clever, as I've observed before. So take a moment to really think it through, Toru. When I was your age, London would have destroyed me. That day in Brussels when Sally tried to find my limits would have put me in hospital-- maybe in a coma. What prevented that?'

'Me.' Toru rubs his neck. 'The way Sun helps you now. It's both of us.'

'Neither of us knew what we were looking at, is all. And I suspect it went deeper even than that. The night Ivan Rzhevsky captured us, I was able to read him even after he jabbed me with his serum. And the serum didn't work for me, when it possibly should have done. The presence of a Newtyke affects the function of Newtype abilities.'

'Like with Heero Yuy,' Toru guesses. 'He told me that he tried to die over and over, but that it didn't work until Sylvia was near. She's a Newtyke.'

'And with her near, he was able to use his ability in a new way-- somehow. It's one of the things I'd very much like to ask more about. But I think we have enough evidence for a proper conclusion. Ishaq Khosa was quite taken with you.'

'Ishaq?'

'He trusted you. Enough that he would have gone with us, if you hadn't told him to stay at Koh-i-Noor. And he trusted you enough to stay there at your bidding.'

'I don't think self-preservation counts as anything. And he didn't trust me, he just didn't have a choice. Or if he did-- I told him who I am. So he would know I understood.'

'I'm sure that helped. But I knew him, if only briefly, remember. He was different with you.' Winner sighs. 'Imagine what Rzhevsky might have been like, if he'd had a Newtyke near him. He might never have got so out of control.'

'He didn't have any Newtykes because he was busy murdering their parents,' Toru points out. 'How many were there at Koh-i-Noor?'

'You know better than I. You can see them.'

'Yeah.' It still makes him uncomfortable. That might not go away for a while. 'It's like the Flash, isn't it? A visual flash. You really can't sense them at all? Us?'

'No. If I could, I would have told you. I do hope you believe that.'

'I do.' He smiles, and Winner's mouth curls up in reply. 'I was mad at you,' Toru says. 'For running away.'

'I'm sorry.' Winner covers his hand on the bench, tentatively. 'I did not want to hurt you.'

'I know. And I didn't want you to get hurt, out there doing something stupid and noble. Martyring yourself for something no-one else even realises is a cause yet.' Toru bites his lower lip. 'I guess... that what we're really saying here is... Friends?'

Winner's smile widens until his teeth show. 'I've been running rather low on friends since signing up at St John's. I could do with one.'

'Same.' Toru scrubs his free hand over his nose, and Winner lets him go. 'Um, there's a question buried in all of this, though.'

'When's breakfast?'

'Always. But more importantly, how many Newtykes does it take to pacify all the living Newtypes?'

Winner nods slowly. 'It might be a bit of a strain, always contriving to have you in the room as well as Sun. Not to mention what happens when you get pulled away to another mission someday.'

'You don't really plan on keeping it a secret forever.' Toru watches him for reaction, wishing, for once, that he could read Winner the way Winner reads him. 'You're setting us up for something. Me.'

'I won't reveal anything about you or Sun until or if you ask me to.' Winner shrugs one shoulder. 'If you're asking me what the plan is, don't be disappointed to hear there isn't one. Not for Newtykes. As you've pointed out, I can't recognise them on my own, so I've no way of finding them even if they're sitting under my nose. But the reality is that there may not need to be a plan for Newtykes. You're quite capable of living in the world unaided. It's the Newtypes who need shelter and protection, and I haven't lied about my intentions. I want to help my people. They are my people. While we still have a chance at it.'

'Except that they may never be functional without the help of Newtykes. Koh-i-Noor works because the Newtypes are surrounded by Newtykes, right?'

Winner nods. 'That's my belief.'

'Then to help one, you need both.' Toru chews the inside of his cheek. 'If the Newtypes you bring in are violent, or crazy-- they'll use Rzhevsky's drug. There was enough of it left.'

'It's only a short-term measure. It might buy hours, maybe even a few days, but not more than that.'

'For now. Until they figure it out. Until a Newtype is so resistant that they put him down.'

'You don't think Preventers will do everything possible to avoid that?'

He doesn't know. He isn't sure. 'No' is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't know if it only tastes bitter, or if it's true.

Winner pats his knee and stands. 'Agent Dawes came by yesterday,' he says. 'He's still the lead on Rzhevsky's case. He's had a rather brilliant idea. We're going to try and locate Rzhevsky's victims. He theorised, and it seems plausible, that since I was able to feel the heads in Rzhevsky's London flat by the Flash, I might be able to use Rzhevsky's projection ability to locate bodies elsewhere. We'll start with the morgue in London; they still have several of the bodies. If I can feel it from here, then we'll know for sure that a Flash is a Flash is a Flash, as it were.'

'And that you can locate Newtypes from the comfort of home.' Relative comfort. 'Rzhevsky said he needed drugs,' Toru says somberly. 'It didn't... it didn't go well for us. Him. And I was there for that. So he had a Newtyke present, even if neither of us knew it.'

'Now we know. It's learning to capitalise on it that will be the trick.' Winner stands looking down at him for a long moment, letting the silence drag out. 'Have you had a chance to talk much with her?' he asks finally.

'Who? Sun?'

'Micheko,' he says.

Toru glances away involuntarily. He tries to look back, but finds his eyes on his hands instead. They feel suddenly numb. 'No,' he replies. 'Not for a while.'

'I was fifteen when I fell in love,' Winner tells him. 'And I was lucky enough to never have to do it again. Whether I'll ever be with him, I don't know. But I know that a life without him in it would have been infinitely poorer. Talk to her. If you never listen to a single other word I say, listen to that.'

'No-one ever told you to mind your own business?'

'If I'm right, does it matter how I got that way?' Winner offers him a hand up. 'I'm hungry. Have your armoured tank division run me down some food.'

 

**

 

He doesn't manage to keep his promise about getting Sun out to the city for two more days.

The experiment with the dead Newtypes in the London morgue goes about as Toru expects. On his own, Winner isn't successful, even with Toru with him. With both Toru and Sun at his side-- progress.

And Toru blatantly leans on that progress to get permission to take Sun off Preventers' property. They don't shed their escort, and that doesn't escape him; it's going to be a sign of things to come. No Newtype is going to be free of an armed guard for the foreseeable future, and that's something Toru helped make possible. Helped make inevitable. Maybe there's a debate to be had that all the Newtypes left are more dangerous, or at least in more danger, if they're alone and unprotected, but there's one certain thing. They won't be free, now.

They ride the metro across town, their guard a few feet away hanging onto a loop and discretely looking in directions other than just theirs. Sun has lively interest in everything, enjoying the people, the stations, using Toru's pocket change to buy a paper, then a bag of roasted chestnuts, then a pair of sunglasses to block out the bright reflected sunlight bouncing off Brussels' many office windows. For his part, Toru enjoys her enjoyment. The world must be exciting from her perspective, he thinks, and wonders why it never really has been from his.

'There's a bunch of shops up that way,' he tells her, point up the street. 'You need anything? Want anything?'

'I can't keep using your money.' Sun casually takes his hand. 'Is it expensive, to live here?'

'In this part of town, probably.' There's more than the usual number of 'to let' signs in the flats above the stores. Toru doesn't pay much mind to the economy, outside of his job. 'There's other neighbourhoods, and the countryside of course.'

'Where did Quatre live?'

'In Canada. In a little place. He didn't tell you about it?'

'He would always change the subject.'

'Figures.' Toru catches the eye of their escort, and nods toward their intended destination. She inclines her head in return and moves ahead of them, her hand hovering near her weapon. 'Trowa lives in Paris with-- he lives in Paris. It's a nice house. You'd probably like it.'

'Could I get a house?'

'I don't want to say no, but I don't know exactly how to say yes.' Sun smiles at him, and he knows she already knew the answer. Toru heaves a sigh. 'It's not like it's not relevant. It's just that you barely exist on paper. But we'll have to figure it out sooner than later. If we do start bringing in Newtypes. We can't keep them all on base forever. But you'll need bank accounts and identification papers and-- I don't know, I don't know if the government will give you that. They can't keep you prisoner, and that's what it would be, if they didn't, but I don't know if there's a third way. Or if Quatre has a plan for that, for all I know.'

'You worry too much. If Quatre does have a plan, it's not your responsibility to ride herd on him.'

'What, it's yours? Tell me again why you came.'

Her hand tightens on his. She ducks her head away, her dark hair falling over her face. It might have been easier to fall in love with her, Toru thinks, and knows he'll probably think it again, but it's really not true. Because in this moment, looking at her, he wants her to be confident like Micheko, strong like she is, just telling him what she thinks and why she's right, not making him guess.

'Why didn't you live with your Aunt?' Sun asks suddenly.

'My Aunt?'

'Relena Peacecraft. She's your aunt.'

'Maybe I did, for all you know.'

'If you had, you'd be openly Thorulf Peacecraft, wouldn't you.'

An old woman walking past them turns her head, but keeps walking. Toru sets his jaws together. 'My father abdicated. He legally adopted the identity of Zechs Merquise.'

'But you don't go by Merquise. Or Noin. Either one would have been safer for you, if safe was what you wanted.'

'I guess I don't know what to tell you about that. My name is my name. I didn't choose it. I didn't choose who raised me, either, any more than you did.' Toru picks a shop at random, a women's clothing shop. He holds the door for Sun, as she brushes past him inside. Their escort follows a moment later, staying by the front window, eyes on them, on the other clientele. 'Pick something out. I'll buy it for you. It's not a house, but it's a start.'

Sun props her hands atop a low rack of pashmina. 'I don't need things, Toru.'

'Then what do you need?' Toru picks up a pretty beaded changepurse, tossing it in his hand. 'I can figure it out if you make me.'

'What could I possibly need? I come from a place no-one knows exists and I have no-where to go. If I want to affect anything--'

'And you do,' Toru guesses. 'It's not just that you want to see the world, because you've figured out by now that you won't, or not immediately anyway. So my question is still whether you had these ideas before Quatre got to Koh-i-Noor or whether he infected you with his brand of crazy.'

'Be nice,' she reproves him mildly. Toru rolls his eyes, and she turns with a little flip of her hair, browsing the nearest rack of dresses with a slow, considerate hand. 'Why did you become a Preventer?'

'The world is dangerous,' he says. 'In large part because of people like our parents. I wanted to be a part of keeping it safe.'

'That answer seems a little...' Sun lingers on a green silk dress, stroking the crocheted collar. 'Glib, I think I would call it.'

'Well, what other reason would I give? That's our mission. Obviously I support that.'

'Do you?'

'Of course I do,' he says impatiently. 'Why does it feel like we're fighting?'

'I'm not fighting you.' Sun pulls the dress from the rack and turns with it held to her body. 'Do you like it?'

He sighs, and tries not to count the number of times he's been doing that around her. 'Yeah. You'll look beautiful in it. You'd look beautiful in anything.'

'Am I so much prettier than the girls in Brussels?'

'It's not that you're prettier. You're just less-- something. Or more something.'

'Prince Charming,' Sun says, eyes dancing.

'So why do _you_ think I'm a Preventer?'

'I don't know.' Sun hangs the dress up. 'That's why I asked.'

Toru drops his head back, stares at the ceiling for a minute. Maybe all Newtypes are like this. She's got more Quatre in her than he anticipated. But she's not a Newtype, is she. Maybe it's just what comes of hanging around them all the time, and if he sticks with Winner he'll wind up sounding like the bad half of a Victorian mystery novel, all dire hints and warnings that never pan out.

'My parents were Preventers,' he tells her finally. 'Before they went bat-shit. Before they-- left.'

When he looks again, she's just standing still, watching him. 'My parents have talked about that,' she murmurs. 'There was another war.'

'Almost. Kind-of.' Toru crosses the suite to another rack. He searches the hangers for a size that's small enough, and pulls down a leather jacket. 'This one,' he says. 'It suits you better than lots of frou-frou dresses.'

'I've never really thought of myself as a leather kind of lady.'

'Failure of imagination, isn't it?' Toru holds it out. 'You're too smart by half and pretending you're not isn't going to fool anyone around here. Not for long, anyway. Besides, wasn't the point of running away that you get to be yourself finally?'

'Ah.'

'What?'

Sun takes the jacket, stripping it from the hanger and sliding it on, fluffing her hair out over the collar. 'So you do have an answer for why you became a Preventer.'

He wants to be irritated. He is irritated. But it's funny. Or it's funny after he chooses to laugh at it, anyway, so he does laugh, and he yanks her close by the wrist and kisses her cheek. 'I thought you were like your mum,' he tells her. 'I have a bad feeling you're more like your dad.'

'If I do things right, then I'll just be like me.' Sun is grinning as she steps back, twirling to show off the jacket. 'Is it the one?'

Toru plucks her new sunglasses from the top of her head and sets them over her nose instead. 'Yup. I think that's the look. Come to the cashier. I'll pay.'

'Toru.' She catches his hand again. 'Toru, I... the reason...'

Their escort is drifting toward them again. Toru drops his voice self-consciously, remembering that Sally only let him out with Sun because she thinks Toru is intentionally seducing her for information, and there's no reason to believe that theory hasn't spread. 'The reason for what? Are you okay? You went pale.'

Sun plays with his fingers. Toru lets her, stepping close. Where she was smiling a moment before, now her mouth is turned down, uncertain. Confused by the change in her mood, Toru just waits her out, wondering.

'You know I see things,' she says at last, hesiting over the words. 'I get flashes from people.'

'You're going to need new vocabulary,' he jokes, before realising she doesn't understand. 'The Flash. That's what Newtypes call it when they feel each other nearby.'

She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, and it emerges bitten. 'When Quatre came to Koh-i-Noor. Puneet brought him in. He was raving, and ill. He'd been out amongst people for too long, and it was almost a full day before he was coherent enough to talk to us. Papa thought maybe he was dying, but then he began to get better. I sat with him, to help him. I've done it before with other Newtypes who found us. And I saw something about him.'

Considering he's been itching to find out, suddenly he doesn't want to know. He swallows drily. 'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.'

'He's...' Sun bites her lip until it turns white. Then abruptly lets Toru go and turns away. 'He'll be successful,' she says. 'Recruiting the other Newtypes. Saving them. It will work.'

'That's not what you were going to say.'

'It's all that matters.' Sun looks at the price tag on her jacket. 'Is this a lot? Sixty-five?'

'It's not bad.' Toru pulls her up to the cashier. 'This one, please. Can she wear it out?' He takes a credit card from his wallet, eyeing Sun sideways. 'It's bad, isn't it. Whatever it is.'

Sun drops her dark glasses over her eyes. She may be Heero Yuy's daughter, but in that moment she looks an awful lot more like Winner. 'It isn't mine to tell,' she says.

'Great,' Toru answers, utterly without enthusiasm. Because sometimes there's just no damn winning at all. 'Come on. If you don't need things, maybe you'll enjoy some art. We're right nearby the Musee d'Ixelles. Quatre can be successful in expanding my cultural cache, too.'


	23. Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'But I do believe you're a proper functioning Newtyke now,' Winner adds. 'Well done.'_
> 
> _'Huzzah,' Toru says._

'How did you do it if you didn't start with some kind of meditation?' Toru complains. 'None of this makes the least amount of sense.'

'I don't believe I've ever claimed it did,' Winner replies mildly. He nibbles on another almond and leans back against the wall. 'I suppose it's because we were children. Newtypes in training or not, we didn't sit still better than any other child that age.'

'I guess.' Toru fidgets with his luncheon of brown bread, crumbling the edges into their picnic blanket-- the bed duvet, repurposed for their sit-down. Sun raises an eyebrow at him, and Toru surrenders with a sigh. 'Sorry.'

Barton twists off the cap on a bottle of beer and drinks from it, wiping his mouth on his arm. He nudges the cheese plate closer for Winner's reach. 'So,' he says. 'What was it like?'

Winner pauses with a cracker halfway to his mouth. 'You've never asked before,' he says cautiously.

Barton shrugs one shoulder jaggedly. 'We had other stuff to talk about. Like why it was killing you.'

Their fingers twine. Barton tugs, and Winner leans in for a kiss. It lingers long enough for Toru to run out of ways to pretend he's not watching. He clears his throat. 'Guys, come on,' he mutters.

'Spoilsport.' Winner falls back with a sigh of his own. 'I'm not trying to be exhibitionist. There's not much passing for privacy around here.' He finishes his cracker and brushes his shirt. 'What was it like. It was like school, I suppose. We read books, we memorised supposedly important passages, and we practised. Over and over.'

'We?' Toru presses.

'There were others, in the beginning. By the time Dekim Barton had a Gundam under construction, they'd all gone, and it was just me. I always supposed they were in reserve somewhere, but I didn't know enough about them to search them out.' He takes a sip of Barton's beer when it's extended toward him. 'I thought about it, of course. I recorded their names not long after the war. Then, given events over time-- my own reaction to the Newtype... side-effects... the changes after the Haddad Rebellion, the fall of Sanq...' He drinks again. 'I burnt the list. I can say honestly I don't remember every name on it.'

'Commander will love that.' Toru drops his elbows onto his knees, playing with a loose threat in ankle holster. 'And she won't believe it.'

'I'm human enough to have a faulty memory.' Winner wipes his hands on a paper napkin. 'She'll like the rest of it less. Ivan Rzhevsky killed many of them. I saw their names in the case file.'

'Many,' Sun says. 'Not all?'

'Not all.'

'Then you have people to search for. Not just random searching, but targets.' Toru sees Winner's nod from the corner of his eye. 'People who might remember you.'

'If they are indeed Newtypes. Just because they started in the programme doesn't mean they were able to evoke an ability. It's a miracle anyone was able to, really; it was all quite silly, pointless.'

'You told me once that the scientists who came up with all of it were probably sharing information with the ones on Earth, so it stands to reason the programmes had similar foundations,' Toru recalls. Winner nods again, and Toru adds, 'So when did they start with the drugs?'

Winner has the beer bottle in hand, and one finger taps the glass, once, twice, again. 'I was thirteen,' he says finally, almost remotely. He drinks, a large swallow. 'Shortly before the others were taken away. Dekim Barton had me and two of the other most promising candidates brought to his home. Comfortable rooms. Fine meals. Then he had us grabbed in the middle of the night. Stripped and beaten. Locked in cold dark cells.' He drinks again. 'H, the man who built my Gundam, he brought the drugs. Three nights. I saw things. Heard things. Everyone in a hundred-foot range was open to me, no barriers. I've rarely been that strong, before or since. So, yes. The drugs make a difference. Emotion makes a difference. That's no secret and never has been. But it's a short-term device for a short-term result and it may well impede the long-term health of the subject. Who's to say--' He stops himself, whatever it is he's saying, and drinks the rest of the beer.

Barton takes the empty bottle from him. 'Sounds sucky,' he says succinctly.

Winner breathes out a laugh. 'I had it easy,' he answers. 'Heero's childhood was hell. His mind almost broke my heart, when we first met. What Dekim did to him was monstrous. They wanted a perfect soldier.'

'I thought you said it was better with the Resistance,' Toru not-quite-asks, not entirely sure why he's asking. What he's asking.

'It was. Because we made it so. Because we broke away, and because Dekim didn't matter a damn thing once we launched on Earth. It was our war, not his.' Winner slumps back against the wall, scrubbing his face vigourously. 'We're rather far off the path I meant for us to walk, and we haven't as much time as I wanted for this. I'm expected back at two.'

'Then you should maybe explain what it is exactly you wanted, because your message was a little cryptic.' Toru levels a look at Sun, who smiles unrepentently. 'Or at least your messenger was.'

'My little experiment with Agent Dawes had me thinking.' Winner moves their lunch out of the way, with Barton's help. 'He had me try to locate the Flash off the dead Newtypes in the Preventers' morgue in London. It is possible. Which means it is possible to locate any dead Newtype, just by the Flash. It's possible the Flash never goes away, no matter how long they've been dead. It's a part of us, our physical bodies, maybe even our genes. Like calls to like.'

'Okay.' Toru sits straighter. 'What's this leading to? It's not new information.'

'It means that the fixed value is the Flash. Not the distance involved. The distance can be leveraged by other factors-- like the addition of Newtykes. And perhaps the addition of more than one Newtyke will multiply the amplification.'

'Double the Newtyke, double the range. Okay. Is this you-thinking or your ability thinking?'

'Good luck defining that separation,' Barton grunts, and relocates to the bed.

'Point taken. So? You want me in the room more when you're working on this stuff with Commander and Dawes?'

'No. Not if it risks questions about why I always want you around. Dawes and Walker have a certain amount of suspicion about your loyalties already, and they've got enough experience of Newtypes to start asking questions if we make ourselves obvious. For now, we can get away with private friendship. So let's utilise that.' Winner holds out his hands, one to Sun, who immediately takes it, and one to Toru, who doesn't.

'What?' Toru says blankly.

Winner wiggles his fingers. 'Physical contact is one of those levers.'

'Since when? I didn't know that.'

'Really? Given you're the one who figured it out.'

'You know, one of these days I'm going to get tired of always coming in last in these competetive conversations of yours, and I'll just leave.'

Barton, watching from the bed, snorts his disbelief. Toru pinches his lips together.

'In your pool experiments with Rzhevsky and Ishaq,' Winner explains, with patience that Toru is almost sure is faked for his benefit. 'When you touched them, you were able to utilise your ability. Not coincidentally, both Rzhevsky and Ishaq were able to surpass the limits on theirs, because of you.'

'You don't know for sure that's how it works.'

'Toru, you can keep fighting with me, but I am under a tight schedule, and we'll just end out arguing it out again tomorrow.'

God. Fine. Toru takes his damn hand.

'Thank you.' Winner closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. 'Don't worry about what I'm doing. What I want you to do is try to reach Heero.'

'Heero Yuy? Why?' He clenches his free hand on his knee. Sun covers it, and he lets her grip his fingers. 'I thought you didn't want him exposed.'

'I don't. That's why we're doing this now, and privately.' Winner's face is serene now, his breathing even and deep. 'I'll find him. And you'll speak to him, the way you've done with me. To tell him Sun is safe. That their secret is safe.'

'I can't!'

'We won't know til we try. But I think you can, with Sun helping.'

'I want to strangle you right now.'

'I know,' Winner says calmly. 'Tick tock, dear.'

Toru sets his jaws. He shuts his eyes to shut out the sight of the man, and forces himself past the usual slide of relaxation straight into the exercise of meditation, even if Winner thinks he doesn't have to bother. That's what the beer was about, he's sure now, a crutch they're going to talk about whether Winner likes it or not. There's not a lot of moral difference between alcohol and PCP and Preventers have been clear they're not subsidising any more of that. Barton can live dry if all he's really doing is handing it over to Winner for a quick high.

'Hush,' Winner murmurs.

He counts his heartbeats for a minute, then lets the thudding die out. His breath rocks him gently, until that sensation dies away as well. His limbs are heavy, first, then airy, then numb. The sensation of Winner and Sun's hands in his disappears, and he feels connected to them only by their nearness.

He opens his eyes. He's not surprised to find them both glowing. He lets his eyes drift shut again, too heavy to keep open.

He actually feels the moment it begins, this time. It gathers in Winner like a storm brewing, electricity coiling. And then releasing. That feeling of stretching an impossible distance, that's the same, but stronger than when Khosa did it, stronger even than Rzhevsky. Whether it's because of Sun or if it's just like they used to speculate, that Winner's just that powerful, it's hard to say. Either way, it leaves him breathless, straining.

And then it's like slamming into a brick wall. There's flight, and then there's the hit. Toru physically flinches from it. What the hell is it?

'The shield,' Winner whispers thinly. 'I can't pass it. You can.'

The shield. The shield at Koh-i-Noor. It keeps out Newtypes-- but Toru hadn't felt anything when he'd been standing right in front of it. It doesn't affect Newtykes. He wets his lips. _I don't know how._

'It's not in the knowing. It's in the doing.'

 _Not effing useful._ He feels a shiver-- Sun. Her smile. She strokes his hand.

With Winner-- he'd seen him. Been thinking of him, and called him, somehow. So. Heero Yuy. Black hair like Sun's, maybe by the water-- except he doesn't see water, he doesn't see Koh-i-Noor, he just sees blackness, urgent blackness. And no-one waiting in it.

'Try, Toru.'

He isn't even sure what he remembers about Koh-i-Noor at this point. He was in shock practically the entire time he was there. He remembers the big tree, the hot sun he and Khosa walked under, the bright red cushions on the couch in the room where Sylvia Noventa told them everything. The little threads of silver in Sylvia's hair. The plain gold ring on her finger, and the way she'd turned it with her thumb as she spoke.

The ring on her finger. Turning. He is seeing it. He's seeing it.

'Good,' Winner encourages him softly. 'Good. Call out to her.'

Toru swallows. His throat is almost too dry. _Sylvia? Ms Noventa, can you hear me?_

'Harder.'

 _Sylvia. Sylvia!_ He inhales sharply, and grips the hands in his. 'Sylvia!'

Her head lifts. She hears him. Toru's heart jumps in wild exhilaration. About a second before he realises he has no idea what to say.

'Tell Mama I'm all right,' Sun implores him.

Toru licks his lips. _Sylvia. Sun is with us. Me and Quatre. We're safe. We're good. I don't-- I don't know if you can hear me--_

Her head bobs up and down. He can see her face, kind of, blurry and shiny, as if he were staring into the sun. But he sees her nodding eagerly.

 _We're going to try to find other Newtypes,_ he says, just sheer impulse. _We don't know if it will work. Or who's even out there. But Sun is here, and she's safe. Helping us. We're just trying to help everyone, all the other Newtypes. It will be all right._

'Tell her I love her. Toru? Please.'

 _She loves you._ The euphoria of triumph leaks away, rushes out of him, leaves him feeling suddenly drained and hollow. _She misses you. But please believe that what she's doing here is valued. And you know Quatre wouldn't let her a foot out of his sight. None of us would. You have my promise on that._

Winner sighs. 'Let it go now. She can't answer you, and there's no more information to give yet.'

'How—'

Winner releases his hand. And it's over, just like that. Sylvia Noventa is gone, the connection broken. Toru blinks, disorientated. The suite swirls a little about him, before righting on its axis.

'Have a drink.' Winner hands him a bottled water. 'There you go. You as well, Sun. Do you need a lie down?'

'Her or me?' Toru drinks thirstily, as if he hadn't had a full bottle during lunch, only minutes ago. Minutes. Not hardly. He looks at his watch, and finds nearly a full hour has passed. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at his ponytail uneasily.

'You,' Winner says, and catches a cushion tossed by Barton to lower Toru, protesting all the way, onto. 'Hush and listen to your elders. Give your blood pressure a moment to settle. Sun, prop up his feet.'

'I'm fine,' Toru mumbles, embarrassed by the attention, even if the trip onto his back did leave him light-headed. 'Did I-- I don't even know if that worked.'

'We have no way of knowing from this room.' Winner crouches over him. 'What made you tell her that? That we're trying to find the other Newtypes?'

'I don't know. It just seemed like something important.'

'Hmm.' Winner gazes down thoughtfully at him. Toru tries to sip his water, and spills on himself. Winner cracks a smile at last. 'Best buck up,' he says then. 'We're due up at Main.'

'Yeah.' Toru eases up to his elbows. So far so good. 'You have your idea face on.'

'I'm sure I haven't any idea what you mean.' Winner helps Sun up first, and lets Barton handle Toru, with the result that Toru feels like his arm is yanked out of the socket. Barton quirks an eyebrow at him when he scowls. 'But I do believe you're a proper functioning Newtyke now,' Winner adds. 'Well done.'

'Huzzah,' Toru says.

 

**

 

'It looks feasible,' Sally muses. 'Expensive, probably, but we can cut down on that. Ideally we'll keep the runner team small. Winner, obviously, at least in the beginning. Walker, Dawes, Craft. Bring Ricciardi back in as well, he had a lot of face-time with Rzhevsky. Let's keep this amongst the experts until we grow our crowd of Newtypes.'

'What about Sun?' Toru asks. 'Um, her name, um--'

'Ohayashi,' Micheko supplies, looking at him oddly. It's not the first time he's forgot Sun's fake name, and Micheko isn't stupid. She's getting suspicious.

'Right,' he says. 'We're pretty sure her papers are fake, but if we want her with us, we can get around that, right?'

'Keep her here,' Sally decides. 'She strikes me as prone to wander off if the wind takes her, and she's untested in a gunfight. At least we know Quatre will stand firm.' Sally taps through screens on the case file, data whizzing by on the big screen television ahead of them. 'What do we know about Ohayashi's group? What's it called, Red Scare?'

'Zone. Red Zone.' Toru shifts in his chair. 'Um, not much. It wasn't on Rzhevsky's list, but he admitted there were Newtypes out there being created today that he didn't know about. Given her age, I'd say there's a fair chance Red Zone came into being around seven or eight years ago and developed, um, developed their Newtypes accordingly.'

He's a crap liar. And Sally knows how to spot him when he's digging in. He shuts up before he gets any worse.

'Well,' Sally says finally. 'At any rate, having her here is an advantage.'

'Advantage? How?'

'If nothing else, she's incentive to keep Winner coming back here. Whoever she is, he clearly feels a tie to her.'

Toru sets his jaws. It's the only way to stop himself from talking back. Sally isn't looking at him, and that's maybe the only thing that stops her, too, but Micheko sees it, and warns him with a little shake of her head. Which only makes it worse. He's not a child. He knows.

'We've cleared out the rest of the barrack we've got Winner stashed in. We can house Newtypes there with relative security,' Sally goes on, reviewing her notes as she speaks. 'Although Walker has recommended we consider refurbishing one of the hangars on the back Nine Lot instead, I understand?'

'It's more isolated,' Micheko explains coolly. 'If the rest of the Newtypes out there are anything like Mr Winner or Mr Khosa, they'll need distance from the rest of us. And it will be easier for us to care for their needs.'

Toru looks at Micheko in surprise and gratification. 'I agree,' he says.

'Not to mention they seem to like each other's company,' Dawes adds. 'The girl's been in Winner's room every night but the first. Which has to be comfortable for all of them, given the romance between Winner and Barton.'

Sally purses her lips to cover a smile. 'It's sort of cute,' she comments. 'I haven't seen them like that since they were teenagers.' Dawes' shoulders lift in agreement.

'It's not cute,' Toru says.

Sally looks up. After a pause, she answers, 'I didn't mean anything by it but that it's cute, Toru.'

'There's nothing cute about something that's ending. They both know it's ending. The rest of us acting like we're not going to force them apart again doesn't make it cute.'

Micheko is glancing away. Dawes looks faintly embarrassed. Sally just looks grim.

'It is,' Toru says. 'The minute this becomes a serious mission Barton's going to be kicked off base. We're not going to pay for him to sit around supporting his boyfriend. And point of fact his boyfriend lives in Paris. He's here having an affair with Quatre. On taxpayer subsidy. They both knew it never had a chance. It's sad, and hard. Not cute.'

'Then I'll amend the record, if that's all right with you, Craft.' Sally's expression has settled into cold disapproval. Toru meets her impassively. 'Moving on. Registration.'

'I think we've come up with a relatively smooth process.' Dawes inserts an USB into the port and brings up the document packet. 'Accounting for the possibility that some of the Newtypes won't be willing to work with us and some might not be able, we're going to keep the focus on the need-to-know, and hold off the want-to-know for later face-to-face interviews. The first-tier data are going to be any personal requirements related to their abilities. How do we keep others safe around them and what do we need to know to keep them safe with us. Medical exam, to the extent they consent, should provide a lot of information here. Second-tier is going to be background on how they became Newtypes. What their affiliations were, slash are, where they're from and if that might point us toward how they became Newtypes in that area, per Agent Craft's observations on the demographics behind the programme. Obviously the primary aim is going to be determining the state of the programme in its current form. The existence of Newtypes as young as Sun Ohayashi indicates that someone out there is still producing Newtypes for some kind of agenda, and we need to know what that agenda is and how hostile it intends to be. Third-tier comparing the ones we net with Rzhevsky's data. There's bound to be Newtypes we won't find who were on lists. We need to figure out where the missing ones are and what's happened to them.'

Toru leans in on his elbows. 'You want to create a registry of Newtypes.'

'I don't see how we can avoid it.' Sally flattens her hands over her case reader. 'And before you accuse me again, Quatre knows. There's no avoiding it. The Newtypes will be in Preventers' custody.'

'Now it's custody?'

Sally heaves out a breath. 'You are extremely close to a reprimand. Don't make me.'

Toru opens his mouth, and closes it. He sits back.

'Continue, Agent Dawes,' Sally says.

Dawes clears his throat. 'After registration, at Mr Winner's suggestion, we should focus on rehabilitation. We're bringing on a staff psychologist and a psychiatrist. Mr Winner proposes that we try to set up something as non-industrial as possible. The more it looks like a government-run hospital, the more suspicious it will be, I gather. We gave him a furniture catalogue and we're going to set up a rec centre with an atrium. He advocated for windows, but I don't know if we ought to give on that one. Windows can be broken.'

'And windows with bars on them don't convey the same sense of freedom,' Micheko contributes. 'We might be better off avoiding the question entirely.'

'What does rehabilitation lead to?'

Heads swivel toward Toru again. Sally is not pleased. Her mouth is flat, her eyes unblinking. 'Your hostility is inappropriate, Agent. And I have already warned you once.'

'I think it's a legitimate question. Why rehabilitate them if not to do something with them? We're not a charity.'

'Craft—'

'If you're creating a registry to compare to Rzhevsky's data, then you already know what the hole is. The Newtypes on Mars.'

Sally's fingers tap the table. 'So?'

'How many of the exiles were on Rzhevsky's kill list? I want to see it.' Sally's jaw tightens, and Toru overrides her. 'I already know about it. Letting me see it doesn't break confidentiality any more than telling me about its existence.'

'No.'

'Are they on it? My parents?' Sally blinks rapidly, trying not to look at the other two, and Toru shrugs more carelessly than he really feels. 'Walker already knows and Dawes has probably put it together by now, assuming you never found it necessary to tell him. Assuming Rzhevsky never figured out who I am. If he tracked Newtypes as closely as he says, then he knew Milliardo Peacecraft and Lucretzia Noin had a son. And that the son didn't go into exile with them. So I want to know if I'm on the kill list. A known child of Newtype parents wouldn't have been under his radar.'

It's so quiet that the hum of the screen is audible now. He can hear Dawes swallow. Micheko rub her fingers together.

'Why didn't I live with Aunt Relena?' he pushes.

Sally's lower lip disappears for a moment, caught between her teeth. She straightens. 'Relena was busy with affairs of state. And she was a very young woman when-- it-- happened.'

'But she's my only blood relative. Or did that matter to you as much as the fact that she'd supported Heero Yuy and my father? Supported Newtypes? Because the only other reason for me to be raised anywhere else is that you had reason to believe Newtypes were in danger, and if you believed that and I'm the only one you saved then it's criminal negligence.'

Sally drives to her feet, pale beneath two spots of red anger in her cheeks. 'You're on report, Craft.'

'Peacecraft.' Toru stands, as well, facing her down. 'Did you take me to protect me? Or to watch me? Why even let me join Preventers if you were never going to trust me? Or was that just to keep me at your right hand, too? You know, it wasn't even really my idea to go after Quatre, now that I think about it. You were the one who realised Rzhevsky was a Newtype. And the profile of Newtypes was written decades ago. When I really step back and think about it, you know-- you know-- God, it's been right here the whole time. Rzhevsky's not the only one with a list of Newtypes. So who wrote the one Preventers has?'

'Even if I wanted to tell you that I couldn't!'

'How hard was it to convince me it was my own idea to change my name?' Toru rubs his tired eyes. 'Never mind. I don't care. It doesn't matter, anyway. It's done and they're never coming back and this is the life I have. But you had to expect one day I'd figure things out. You don't get to pissed about that. You don't get to. It's _my_ life. Not yours.'

He can see the pulse jumping in Sally's throat. Her fists clench. She doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what she's thinking.

And he doesn't care. He doesn't care. So maybe that's the end of it, and there's only one thing left to do.

He leaves.

 

Micheko finds him in the gym three hours later. He's long since worn out his burst of fury and any attendant energy; he's been running too hard for too long, and there hasn't been a lot of opportunity for regular workouts between all those runs, so after a shaky miss with the weights and some feeble kickboxing, Toru is just sitting in sweat-soaked cottons and not-thinking very dedicatedly.

Micheko takes off her suit coat and drops it to the bench. She sits beside him, dangling her hands between her knees. 'So,' she says.

Toru tugs his elastic out of his tangled hair. 'Yup.'

She starts to smile and tries to suppress it. Then just lets it sit there, small and warm. 'You've got guts,' she tells him. 'Not much brains, but plenty of guts.'

He barks out a sharp laugh. 'Oh, yeah. Definitely.'

Micheko leans right, toward the towel station, and snags a flannel for Toru. He wipes his face, his neck. Rolls it into a pillow and puts it behind his head to lean against the wall. Micheko mimics him. 'Do you really think Dawes knew your real name?'

'It was a guess.' He's not entirely sure, now that he's not so heated. 'You think the logic stands up?'

She turns her head to look at him. He doesn't meet her eyes. 'Probably,' she agrees finally, softly. 'Your parents are famous. And we know Rzhevsky at least considered the problem of what happens when Newtypes have children. Well, he thought it was a problem.'

'I keep thinking I'm okay with everything. Then suddenly I'm not. I don't really blame Commander for not trusting me. I can't even trust me.'

'Toru...' Micheko sighs. 'If you weren't angry, it'd be strange.'

His laugh is weaker this time, as he bends over his lap, buries his face in his hands. 'That's a hell of an endorsement. Think that'll make a difference on my performance review? It was inevitable, I swear.'

Her palm lights on his back, between his shoulderblades. 'She won't really put you on report.'

'She should. I was the definition of insubordinate.'

'Insubordination is based in sexism or racism or macho bullshit, not betrayal at finding out the woman who raised you as her own was basically treating you like a Newtype experiment.' Micheko strokes his spine with her thumb. 'Are you quitting?'

He runs his hands through his hair until he hits a tangle he can't pass, cups his skull tightly. 'No. I can't. Not with Quatre and Sun stuck here. Not while... things are the way they are. And... I don't have anywhere else to go, really.'

'Nowhere?'

Koh-i-Noor. But even as he thinks it he knows he wouldn't stay there. The world of shopping and museums and tourism and all that may not hold his attention, but he still wants to be out in it, not hidden away and unable to leave. 'No.'

'Your Aunt. She'd take you in.'

'Relena?' Considering he'd just been arguing about it, he hasn't thought of what it would have been like, to be raised in Sanq. Or what had been Sanq, before it collapsed. The letters he gets from Relena are few and far between, now, always from some new corner of the world or the colonies, as she travels on her diplomatic missions. He knows enough now from Preventers that he could join her security guard, maybe.

Micheko checks her watch. 'We're supposed to pick up Mr Winner for the afternoon. Want to shower before or after?'

'Before, I guess.' Toru rubs his nose quickly and sits up. 'Thanks. Um, I mean-- thanks.'

'Sure.'

'No—' He bites the insides of his cheeks. 'I've missed talking with you.'

'Even after everything else?' She brushes her hair away from her forehead, ducking his gaze. 'It was my job, but I'm sorry. I don't know if I even realised until I heard you in there today how it would fit with everything else for you. How it would feel for you.'

'I get it.'

'Do you really?'

'Yes. A year ago, I would have thought all of this was crazy. And wrong.' He fixes the lock of dark silky hair for her, looping it carefully over her ear. 'Why'd you tell Commander I was running a honey trap on Sun?'

'Aren't you?' The sparkle of exaggerated innocence in Micheko's eyes fades. 'I've got your back. Or I'm trying to, anyway. You don't make it easy.'

'You know nothing happened with her.'

'I know you keep saying that.'

He kisses her. Micheko lets him, yielding sweetly for just a second, before pulling away with a little smack at his chin, as if he were a naughty puppy. 'Hey,' he protests.

'You're going to get a reputation,' she reproves him. 'Or give me one. The gym's not empty, stupid.'

'The trainers don't care.' Toru waves at Wendi by the eliptical, while Micheko, laughing, tries to pull his arm down. 'Hey. Listen. Nothing happened with Sun.'

Micheko screws her mouth to the side, eyeing him. Toru takes her hand, wondering what she's thinking. She lets him kiss her fingers, but she chews her lip intently, and he sees her reach a decision.

'Her name isn't Ohayashi,' Micheko says.

Into the fire. Toru presses her hand to his cheek. 'No,' he admits.

'Whatever happened in India, it wasn't that lame story you told. You met her or talked with her or something before she came back for Mr Winner.'

'Yes.'

'And you know more about her ability than you've let on.'

'Yes.' He steels himself for the next question. But Micheko doesn't ask. She just nods. 'That's it?'

'If I don't know, I don't have anything to tell.' Micheko leans in and kisses him, this time. Her lips linger on his, pressing softly, promising more. Her cheek slides against his, her hair sleek against his jawline, and then she's standing away from him. 'For now. But you know this is going to matter sooner rather than later.'

'I know.' Toru collects their flannels and tosses them at the bin. 'Can I ask you a question?'

'If it means you're on the way to the showers next.'

He picks up her coat and holds it out. When she takes it, though, he keeps his grip in the fabric, and Micheko lifts her chin.

'Status on us?' he asks her, as his stomach, defying the cool level tone he manages, sommersaults and drops.

Micheko thinks on it, her eyes lowered, long eyelashes quivering. When her eyes open wide and rise to his again, he tries not to swallow drily.

'I'll let you know,' she answers, and takes her coat from him. 'Use lots of soap. You smell like sweaty boy.'

'I am a sweaty boy.' He scrunches up his nose. 'Applause for the least sexy line I've ever said?'

Her teeth flash in a quick grin. 'Get moving. We're going to be late.'

 

**

 

Their two weeks come to an end without any mishaps. Word goes quietly around Preventers HQ-- they're going forward. Toru tells Winner, who accepts the news with an odd, cheerless nod. The official decision will be announced at a formal meeting with the Director, and Winner will have to do better than that, Toru thinks privately, but then again it probably doesn't matter if he acts grateful or not. It's happening.

The other thing that's happening is that Toru is right in his prediction. Sun may be the clairvoyant one, and Toru takes no pleasure in seeing this one coming, but he isn't surprised by it. Barton finally leaves.

'Can you drive us to the airport?' Winner asks him, his expression still locked down, peculiarly still around the eyes. 'If you can't do it on duty, I'll pay you to take us off-duty.'

'You don't have to pay me.' Toru leans on the door jamb, crossing his arms over his chest. Winner's suite in the barracks hasn't got any friendlier since he moved in two weeks ago, but it's going to feel even emptier without Barton in it. There's a packed duffel sitting on the bed. Winner is not looking in its direction. At all.

'Pay to charge up the car, then.' Winner sits at the desk, slowly shredding a piece of paper. 'Would you mind a bit of a drive, after? I don't think... I should like a little time away, if you think it's permissable.'

'Sure.' Toru scratches his neck, and just asks it. 'Is he coming back?'

Winner inhales, and holds it. 'Don't know,' he says. 'He's been with Ewin for years. Almost a decade. It would be facile to say it's an easy choice. Or even a single choice. There's choosing to end it; choosing to leave Paris; choosing to come here, be a part of whatever this is, or will be, knowing he'll never really understand it, knowing I'll be drawn away from him bit by bit if it works. Choosing a life that may never be bigger than this room and choosing to have Preventers living intimately in here with us. Choosing to be an us, when we haven't ever been that, as adults. Choosing uncertainty because one tiny part of something feels good.' He presses his lips together abruptly, and doesn't add anything more.

'Not that tiny, from what I hear,' Toru says. 'Average, though, I'd believe average.'

Winner glances up. After a moment, he quirks his mouth into a smile. 'That was pretty funny, really.'

'I'm learning.' Toru enters the suite to rescue Winner's paper pile. 'What was this? Before you made budgie bedding out of it.'

A letter. With scraps of familiar handwriting-- Winner's. But it's not til he overturns a bit of letterhead with a hotel logo on it that he recognises the document. It looks like the letter Winner wrote him the night he ran away from the hotel in London. But that letter is in evidence in the case file in Active Storage. Which means this is the letter that Winner wrote for Barton on the same stationery.

Toru assembles a few pieces of it, matching torn edges. He stops when he finds the bit that reads 'Dearest Trowa'. 'I would have thought you'd keep this. You two have kept a lot of things from your life together.'

'Maybe it's time to let him go.' Winner rubs his eyes, leaves them closed, his fingers trembling ever so slightly pressing against them. 'Maybe I've always been just a little flattered that he never-- never mind. You don't need to hear it.'

'I'm okay listening if you want to talk.'

'No. Not right now.' Winner stands, and Toru gives him a wide step back of respectful distanace. 'He's on his way back. Have you eaten yet?'

'Yeah, but I'm still hungry.' Toru grins when Winner rolls his eyes.

The evening drive to the airport is largely silent. Barton and Winner sit in the backseat while Toru drives, but he doesn't mind playing chauffeur. They don't talk, but sit with their heads together, their clasped hands resting on Barton's knee. Once, at a stoplight, Barton moves so suddenly that Toru looks up at them in the rearview mirror. He takes Winner by the chin and kisses him, hard, almost as if he were angry. Winner looks away after, but he licks his lips.

They can't go into the airport, not with Winner, so they just pull in to the drop-off queue. Even there Winner sits slumped with his hand to his head. Toru drives all the way to the end, even though Barton will have to walk back five stations. He parks as far as he can from other cars, and gets out to get Barton's bag from the boot.

Barton emerges from the car with a face like granite. He slings the duffel over his shoulder, gazing a thousand miles or so past Toru's head. 'I want to ask you something,' he says.

Toru closes the boot. 'Yeah. I'll take care of him.'

'Not take care of. There's a line between taking care of and--' Barton swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. 'If this goes to shit, get him out. You owe him that. Do you hear me? You know he came back for you. So if this goes to shit, that's on you, you find a way to get him out.'

'It's going to get better for Newtypes. Sun said.'

'For them. Maybe not for him. There's more she's not saying, and we all know it. Including him. So tell me you get what I'm asking of you.'

Toru sets his jaws together. For the space of one deep breath, and then aother, and one final one more. 'Yes,' he says. 'I get what you're asking of me.'

Winner gets into the front passenger seat for their drive away. Mindful of his earlier promise, Toru picks a path that meanders along the motorways around Brussels, no destination but the next road. He chases the last of the sunset, and then he plays at keeping the moon on their right. When he runs out of new treks and starts repeating himself, though, Winner lifts a hand and lays it over his on the shift.

'Find a park,' he murmurs.

A park. He's never paid much attention to parks, or at least not since he was of age to play in them. He taps the instruction into his GPS navigator. The nearest is twenty-three miles away. 'Do you need a park-park, or would you settle for a couple of trees somewhere?'

'A couple of trees will be fine.'

That's easier to manage. He pulls off into the lot of a small botanical garden. 'You want inside? We can try a little breaking and entering.'

'Can we?' He wins a whimsical smile, even if it doesn't last long. 'Do let's.'

The gate doesn't turn out to be much difficulty; he provides a leg up for Winner, who climbs over the top lithely enough, and the spokes of iron fencing are thick enough to support his weight when he boosts himself up and over. Winner silently points to a security camera, and Toru pulls his jacket up over his face, stifling a sudden urge to giggle like a schoolboy. Winner bites his lip, shaking his head as he ducks into the shelter of shadow.

'Where to?' Toru whispers.

'The daylillies,' Winner replies, in a normal volume. 'Watch your left. There's another camera.'

'Right. Um.' Toru slides slowly past the fee collection booth. 'Maybe this was a dumb idea.'

'They're not going to wire the gardens. We'll be fine past the entrance. You'd just best hope they haven't got anyone actively watching the tapes.' Winner bends to read the signs where their gravel path diverges. 'This way.'

'So what are we doing here?'

Winner stops walking and bends to strip off his shoes. 'You, too. Unless you prefer not. But live a little. You're really quite a straight-laced lad.'

'If I were a “lad” of any stripe, that would bother me.' Toru toes off his loafers and rolls his stockings into his pockets. 'Are we here to get in touch with nature?'

'There could be worse reasons. I miss my hills.' Winner knots his laces and throws his shoes over his shoulders, strikes out across the grass behind the chain path. 'I'm feeling reckless.'

'That won't end well.'

'We're going to do it now. Before anything comes along to distract us.'

'Okay,' Toru agrees, bemused. 'What are we going to do?'

'Contact your parents.'

Toru drops his shoes. That, or maybe just his whole body stops working, because there's a weird space of white noise, and then Winner is facing him, and his knees are wobbly, and it takes concentrated effort to remain standing on them. 'The-- we-- what?' Toru stammers.

'Tomorrow we're going to start something that may not stop moving for years. Decades. And neither of us nor even Sun can ever know how it will end.' He comes closer to Toru, flicking at his tie with a finger. 'This is _our_ time. The last little bit of it left. We can do this.'

'Contact-- how--' He can't get enough breath to finish his words. 'How, we, we can't.'

'We can. The same way you contacted Sylvia.'

'I'm not--' There's a bench. There's a bench, so he drops his shoes on it, drops his rump on it. 'Sun was there. She was helping.'

'No. She was helping me.' Winner crouches beside him. 'We can do this. The only actual barrier is distance, but I've got a hell of an emotional trigger right now. I can do what I did before, search them out using Rzhevsky's ability, and you can try to talk to them. I can't give you guarantees, but this our chance. Your chance.'

His body makes the decision for him. His heart leaps about a million beats a minute. His stomach falls out with a lurch. And every atom in him is screaming yes.

They sit on the cool grass. He takes Winner's hands with no hesitation this time. He closes his eyes, but inner calm and silence won't come. He wets his lips. 'I can't.'

'It's all right.' Winner squeezes his hands. 'Don't fight the excitement. Give in to it. You're going to talk to them. You're going to tell them what a fine young man you've become and they're going to be so proud of you.'

It might be like with Sylvia Noventa. He might see them. Once in school he'd stolen another student's username to look at old news articles of them on the internet. He didn't own any pictures of them, didn't know what they looked like now. His mouth is dry as dust, but his palms are sweating. 'Sorry,' he mouths.

'Don't be sorry. You're strong enough, Toru. The time is right.'

It takes so much longer than the times before. The build is agonisingly slow, until he feels full to bursting, squirming with it, sweating tickling his nose, his eyes scrunched tightly shut. His knuckles creak from the pressure of wrapping tight around Winner's fingers. And-- he can literally feel the dark of Space around them. It's not emptiness. The stars vibrate like guitar strings, and he and Winner go sliding over them, bouncing off them. They careen forward, ever forward, and all Toru can do is cling to him, sightless.

'Toru.' Winner's voice is a guttural strain. 'I'm trying. I need you-- look. To look.'

'I don't see anything.'

'Look. They're there. I can feel them.'

Toru rubs his temple across the shoulder of his jacket. He wants to unbutton his shirt but it never even occurs to him to let Winner's hands go. 'I don't see anything. I'm sorry.'

'Please.' Winner's the one who moves, wrenching a hand free. A moment later it's on Toru's cheek, in his hair. 'Do it. Stop thinking about it. Look for the Flash.'

He understands. Children. There are going to be Newtykes there, and he's the only one of them who can see them. But only if he looks.

And-- God. It's one thing to think about it, to know he might have been replaced with a new family. It's another to find out if it's fact.

But this is the only way he'll ever know. And he'd rather know than not, if it's actually possible. Okay.

There's a moment of grit. Sand. And wind. He sucks in a breath, buffeted by it, but it's not real. Or not _here_. And then he sees it. A pale golden glow. Faint, but there.

'Yes.' Winner grips his skull tightly. 'Call out.'

 _Hello? Can you hear me?_ Too far away. It drops out into the wind. _HELLO! MY NAME IS TORU AND-- CAN YOU HEAR ME?_

The light disappears. Toru squawks, but almost as quickly as it happened it's back. 'Hey-- are you-- hello? Hello, what's happening? They're gone again.'

'It could be the distance.' He feels Winner shake himself, gets tugged in. Their foreheads press together. 'Anyone else?'

'I just don't know what to do, Quatre.'

'Graves. There are graves.' Winner's breath hitches. 'Two of them at least-- they were Newtypes.'

His gut seizes. 'You can't tell who?'

'No. No. Oh--' Winner is struggling, losing. Now it's Toru who holds him, thumbs over his eyelids, keeping him in the moment. 'I can't--'

'Let me try one more time.' Toru gathers himself, forces himself to one tight ball of concentration and stillness, and plunges himself deep into it. _MY NAME IS TORU CRAFT-- PEACECRAFT. ANYONE WHO CAN HEAR ME, MY NAME IS TORU PEACECRAFT OF EARTH. I'M THE SON OF MILLIARDO PEACECRAFT AND LUCREZIA NOIN. THERE ARE CHILDREN OF NEWTYPES ALL OVER EARTH AND WE ARE TRYING TO REACH YOU. WE JUST WANT TO KNOW IF YOU'RE ALIVE AND ALL RIGHT. PLEASE-- PLEASE, I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF MY PARENTS..._

Eyes. Dark blue eyes.

_Mama?_

Winner tumbles against his shoulder. Toru rockets back to himself with a horrific jolt, ill with it. He only just catches Winner, twisting to lower him to the grass. 'Quatre? Quatre, what's wrong?'

Nothing but a faint. Winner is white as chalk, his eyes rolled up in his head. Toru fumbles for the pulse in his neck, finds it thready and weak. 'Shit. Shit, Quatre, come on. Wake up.' Toru grabs his wrists, chafes them, rips his jacket off and stuffs it under Winner's head. Remembers what Winner did for him, and shifts down Winner's prone body to pull Winner's feet up into his lap. 'Come on, Quatre.'

Winner's head lolls. But his eyelashes flutter, and he grimaces, rousing blearily. Toru sits back with a sigh, letting go of the panic that hadn't quite had time to start. Swearing one more time he's not going to let Winner talk him into this crap any more-- not without better planning, at least. They don't even have a bottle of water.

'Did you--' Winner coughs, and covers his face with both hands. 'Contact?' he asks roughly.

'I—' The eyes. He isn't sure. Isn't even sure if that was real. It wasn't like with Sylvia Noventa, when they'd interacted, she'd reacted to him. 'Don't know,' he finishes uncertainly.

'You said it was her? Your mother?'

'I don't know. I don't know why I said that.'

'But you were sure when you said it.' Winner's hands shake. 'There were graves. They're dying there.'

'It's been a long time. The Red Planet is a dangerous place.' Toru eases Winner's feet back to the ground. 'Quatre, we should go. Let's get out of here.'

He gets Winner sitting up. Winner curls a fist in his sleeve, woozy still, and Toru waits him out. When Winner can breathe without difficulty, though, and Toru goes to his knees to bring them standing, Winner holds him back.

'Should I have done this?' he asks Toru.

Toru sits back on his heels. The euphoria of the idea is well past. The reality isn't going to sink in for a while longer. At the moment, he's pretty damn okay with that.

'Come on,' he says, and hauls Winner to his feet.


	24. Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If this is you trying to make up for what you saw last night, you can stop right now. No-one on Mars is going to be saved by what you're doing right now. And Trowa's not going to come back. So grow up and stop leaning on that crutch. Do you hear me? Your relationship isn't a trigger. It's just a sad thing that happens to people all the time. You don't get to use it as a tool when it's convenient. Stop._

They wait in the lobby. Toru tapes paper signs to the glass doors, warning people away-- 'In Use 0800 to 1200, DO NOT DISTURB', and sends away the desk assistant by special dispensation. All new procedures, part of an all new way of thinking at Preventers. The arrival of Newtypes is going to change a lot of things.

Sun looks bright-eyed, her hair braided back from her face and her new leather jacket turned up at the collar. She helps Toru with the tea, carrying mugs back to the other agents and Winner where they sit in the couches under pictures of all the former Directors. Winner, dressed once again in his dark suit and darker glasses, his iPod playing loudly, takes a tea with murmured thanks, never looking up. Most especially not at Toru.

Toru serves Dawes and Micheko, and takes a seat of his own by them, not the open chair by Winner. 'Do you think we'll really be here all morning?' he asks them quietly. 'He's only signing paperwork, right?'

'Could be questions.' Dawes sips his tea, leaning back with crossed ankles. 'That, and we need to legally settle Ms Ohayashi's situation here. She'll be the first test-case of a Newtype brought in under this op, if you look at it right. Got to be sure both she and Winner agree with the terms.'

'Winner, anyway,' Micheko adds. 'He's the one who's really pulling the strings in that relationship, if you ask me.'

'I guess.' Toru puts his tea aside untasted, chewing on a fingernail instead. 'Not that I think he'd send her away now. I think he just wants to reserve the right.'

'And he's got decades of legal expertise she doesn't.' Dawes shrugs comfortably. 'Might be out an hour early. I shouldn't think there's any surprises coming.'

Micheko quirks an eyebrow at him. 'All your experience with Newtypes so far, and you even dare to say that?'

Even Toru can find a grin for that. It fades, when he looks at Winner.

They haven't talked about last night. He hasn't even let himself think about it. It's not difficult. He doesn't know what to think.

Sally and her deputy appear just a few minutes before eight, trailed by Preventers' counsel. Everyone stands, and handshakes are exchanged. 'Good morning,' Sally greets them all. 'We have a busy morning ahead of us. Shall we get started?'

'Of course,' Winner demurs.

The conference room screen stays dark today, as they arrange themselves at the table. 'Comfortable?' Sally asks briefly. When Winner nods, she moves briskly along. 'With apologies, the Director won't be joining us today. There's been an outbreak of violence in South America that requires his attention. But I do have a prepared statement from him that I'll read into the record, and then we'll proceed with signatures.' She centres her e-reader in front of her. 'With everyone's agreement?'

Winner thumbs down the volume of his music. 'Please.'

'Thank you.' Sally flattens her hands beside the reader, then begins to read. '”We greet this historic day with eagerness. Too long, we have allowed distrust and fear to negotiate for us, when reason and common cause should have brought us together. Today, we do not erase that tension and that treachery. Instead, we plot a course that we will walk together, united as we should have been all along.”'

Toru tunes it out from there. Sobrinho has been Director as long as Toru's been a Preventer, for nearly nine years before that, and will probably hold the post another year or two before retiring. Sally's the one people usually think will succeed him, and Toru's always taken that as a given, too. She's been with the Corps since inception. She's always been in the top ranks, and she's led where others have preferred to just take orders, or go their own way. Or rebel. Preventers is running out of old-timers who know the history, and Sally is one of the last who can be said to be carrying on any kind of legacy from Director Une, the first of those portraits on the wall out in the lobby. Sally will be writing speeches like this one day, assuming she didn't actually author this one. He doesn't know if she believes it. But he doesn't really believe anymore that any of it is an accident. Ivan Rzhevsky may have been a surprise, his murders lending an urgency to the unfinished business of Newtypes, but the fact that Newtypes were out there all along and Preventers just happened to have a profile no longer feels like general background prep.

Maybe it was the Haddad Rebellion that started it-- a battle that brought in so many high-profile Newtypes. Maybe the suspicion was older than that. Barton had said Preventers had been after Winner to help them with cases from the beginning. It probably doesn't matter. Preventers and Newtypes. Tension and treachery. And now this. Joining forces, because it's that or die out.

I don't know, Toru thinks, staring down at his hands. I don't know.

A shift in the chair beside him catches his attention. Bhudraja, standing to hand out the formal dossiers. 'We have our counsel, Vera Colben, present, in case of questions. I believe you've met.'

'Yes,' Winner answers. 'Here in Brussels, as I recall.' The day Sally tried to overwhelm him with numbers. It goes unsaid, and Sally's expression of polite restraint does not change. But, if anything, what underlines it isn't the fact that it happened. It's that it's not happening now. With four Preventers, the lawyer, and Sun all sitting with Winner, he's only sitting there, remote and not too talkative, but unharmed. What a difference it makes.

'Wet signatures for this,' Dawes says, opening a slim box with a fine pen for Winner. Winner takes it with a ghost of a smile. 'Signature lines are marked, but we'll go through paragraph by paragraph.'

'I understand.'

'If at any point you'd like to break to speak to your own lawyer, please just let us know.' Sally breaks the seal on the paper, tearing open the document. 'First page.'

All in all, it's not too boring. The agreement spells out in detail everything they've spent two weeks planning, from locating to housing to, tentatively, what's going to happen to Newtypes who refuse to come in or who aren't functioning when they arrive. It's impressively thorough, at least, which only emphasises the gaps. Like how they'll bring down the hostiles. Or even if. Violent resistance isn't beyond the pale, and it only becomes illegal once an assault on a Preventer is involved, but assault can be provoked, and arriving on a Newtype's doorstep unannounced might be considered provocation. Toru doesn't imagine that Winner hasn't thought about it. So he keeps his mouth shut.

It's not til nearly half ten that they get to the issue of Sun's legal status. For the first time all morning, Winner asks for a sidebar. He and Sun rise from the table, taking a dossier with them. They leave for the lobby, and a private discussion that goes on more than half an hour.

Sally pours herself a glass of water. 'Bets?' she asks briefly.

'They'll agree,' Bhudraja says. 'This is Winner's legacy. And Ohayashi's bought into it somehow.'

'She's stayed this long,' is Dawes' guess.

'They'll want concessions,' Colben muses. 'He can't make her a special case without opening the door to making every Newtype a special case, but he'll want concessions. Maybe the same immunity agreement we gave him and Barton.'

'We had enough trouble wrangling two out of the President's office,' Sally sighs. She rubs the point between her eyebrows. 'Let's hope not.'

She doesn't ask Toru for his bet. He doesn't offer. He fiddles with his waterglass and says nothing at all.

Winner and Sun return eventually, resuming their seats at the table. 'Thank you for waiting,' Winner says. 'We've conferred with my lawyer. We have no objections at this time to the agreement, barring the clause regarding medical attention. The clause specifically mentions Preventers' medical care but not private or other public sources of care. I'd prefer that amended. The contract requires travel to locate the Newtypes, and if anything were to happen while we were remote from Preventers care, the clause potentially acts as a penalty on us if we seek medical aid elsewhere.'

'There's no penalty named within the clause,' Colben points out, putting on her glasses to read the section.

'Nonetheless, it is implied.'

Sally waits for Colben's cautious nod. 'Give us five minutes to print the amendment. We'll include it as an attachment. No other objections?'

'No other objections,' Sun says. Winner confirms it with a nod.

Toru is not the only one holding his breath during the final signature round. Winner signs first, Sun next. Bhudraja adds his signature, and Sally signs on behalf of Director Sobrinho. Toru, Micheko, and Dawes sign as witnesses. Colben signs as Preventers Counsel, and provides Winner and Sun with copies of the document.

'If it weren't before lunch,' Sally says, 'I'd break out the champagne. Welcome to Preventers, Mr Winner, Ms Ohayashi.'

'Thank you.' Winner shakes her hand when it's offered. 'Not too painful.'

'We'll be swinging into action pretty much immediately. That will include somewhat more comfortable accommodation for the two of you. I appreciate your patience on that score.'

'Of course.' Winner resumes his seat, adjusting the string of his earphones. 'It's not been unpleasant. I do look forward to a change in scenery.'

'We'll develop an action plan for locating Newtypes. As soon as you can be ready, we'll get to work.'

'Of course.' Winner links his hands on the tabletop. 'I'm free now.'

Everyone is set blinking at that. 'Now?' Sally repeats. 'You'd like to start right now?'

'I see no reason to wait.' Winner regards the Preventers impassively behind his dark glasses. 'I think your action plan will read something like “Point the Newtype in the right direction and go”, and then whatever you have to do afterward will be unchanged by what I do now. My part can take place anytime. So why not now?'

Toru chews his lower lip. This is not a good idea. Just last night Winner was fainting in a park after an attempt, for all Toru knows an unprecedented attempt, to reach another planet with just his mind. They'd had no prep time.

'I don't need any preparation,' Winner says, maybe answering that thought, maybe just anticipating it. 'Just a map, I think. So you can mark locations as I uncover them.'

Dawes clears his throat. 'Well. We can do a map.' He rises to load the computer in the corner. When he turns on the big screen, blue fading into the matching image of the computer desktop, he brings up the internet, and runs a query on a global city map.

'Don't forget the colonies,' Winner tells him.

'You can read the colonies from here?' Sally asks.

'I see no reason why not,' Winner replies. 'I haven't tried it yet. We can begin with that.'

'Quatre,' Sun begins, then leans in to whisper to him. Winner listens, at least at first. He shakes his head almost immediately to whatever she's saying, and pats her hand with a distinct air of condescenion. Sun's mouth is tight as she leans back in her chair.

'I'll change the signs on the lobby doors,' Toru mutters, and goes without anyone noticing.

The search for a marker gives him time to cool down, and by the time he's change the 'DO NOT DISTURB' to read the full business day, and contacted Sally's assistant from the desk phone to let him know where she'll be all day, things have already started back in the conference room. He enters to dead silence, and stays leaning on the door to watch rather than return to the table.

Winner sits with his head bowed. He's glowing. So is Sun, something he hasn't noticed about her much since the early days in Koh-i-Noor. Her hand rests on the table near him, as if she can't help it. She catches Toru's eyes. He shrugs mutely.

When he was caught up in it in the park and when they were contacting Sylvia Noventa, he hadn't been aware of how much time was passing. Now it feels like slow agony, every second turning into minutes, minutes gathering with dreadful tediousness. Maybe Winner's getting worn out on that emotional trigger of Barton leaving him. Maybe Mars took more out of him than he wants to admit.

It takes almost fifteen minutes. Winner releases a shaky breath. 'L3,' he says, his voice a thin strained whisper. 'He's on L3... Carmel Valley.'

Dawes at the computer places a bright red dot on their map. 'Anything to narrow that down? Carmel Valley has about ten thousand inhabitants.'

Another long silence. Winner's hands clench and unclench. 'La Ward,' he manages, finally. 'I think... near... he smells rubber. Burning rubber.'

'We can track that down later,' Sally instructs quietly. 'Don't use up your strength. If nothing else, when we get there we can narrow it down, if the Flash takes less out of you. Fascinating.'

'It's different than when Rzhevsky did it,' Bhudraja notes, also subdued, when Winner doesn't raise his head. 'I don't think he was able to get details like smells and things. It's not in his case file either. Maybe Winner is using his own ability to read the Newtypes when he's finding them?'

'Which is how he would have been able to distinguish between other Newtypes and Heero Yuy,' Toru observes. 'He never had to waste time tracking down each Flash. He knew immediately they weren't who he was looking for.'

'Hm.' Sally props her chin on her hand. Hm. So maybe she still doesn't believe that Winner didn't find Heero Yuy. Or that he's not out there to be found. Winner will have to be creative in avoiding Koh-i-Noor.

'L1,' Winner says then. 'I think. Or one of its satellites.' He wipes sweat from his forehead. 'Chříč. It's a woman. Young woman. Blue eyes, blonde hair. She's moving fast, she won't be there long.'

'Will you be able to find her again?' Micheko asks.

'Iva. Her name is Iva. She has family there. She didn't speak to them, she just wanted to be sure they were there, all right...'

Dawes adds another dot to the map. 'I'd say the action plan is working,' he comments.

Three on L4. Two on an MO station. Then back to Earth. One outside of Hong Kong. Another in Laos. Two in Yekaterinburg, one on the shore of Lake Nasser, a woman in Tunis. In searching North America Winner starts to get pale, two hours in. Sally steps out for a meeting in the hall and returns just as Winner, gasping, calls a find in Uruguay, late in hour three.

Hour four stretches on, and on, and on. Winner is swaying in his chair. The glow around him is faltering. Toru pours him a glass of water and puts it in front of him, but he won't break his trance to drink it.

Nothing at all in hour four. Winner can't even sit up on his own by hour five. He sits with his head on the table, hands at his head for what is obviously pain. Sun fetches the wastebin just in time when he retches with migraine, but even that isn't enough to stop him. The glow is nothing but a sputtering aura, barely sheening his skin.

Toru watches hour six arrive on the wall clock, Micheko tapping her fingers, Dawes watching with frowning brows and Sally subtly writing down Winner's vital signs in the margins of her notepad.

'This is stupid,' he says. He takes the back of Winner's chair and turns it, pulling Winner away from the table. He pulls Winner's glasses off and drops them to the table. 'Do you hear me? This is stupid. Stop pushing yourself so hard.'

Winner's tightly closed eyes stay that way as he shakes his head. 'I can do this,' he whispers raggedly.

'Who the hell cares?' Toru almost takes him by the shoulder, but hesitates, remembering what happened every other time he touched a Newtype in the middle of this process. He'll get drawn along with it, in front of all the others. 'Maybe there aren't any others to find. Maybe they're all dead.'

'You think Rzhevsky killed all the others?' Micheko asks.

'Maybe. Or maybe it was time. If they weren't stable to begin with.' Winner is a damn stubborn fool, though, and won't listen. For a moment, the glow flares stronger. Toru almost turns away in disgust.

He plants a hand on the table and leans in, putting his head close to Winner's. He thinks, loud and hard, _If this is you trying to make up for what you saw last night, you can stop right now. No-one on Mars is going to be saved by what you're doing right now. And Trowa's not going to come back. So grow up and stop leaning on that crutch. Do you hear me? Your relationship isn't a trigger. It's just a sad thing that happens to people all the time. You don't get to use it as a tool when it's convenient. Stop._

'I can do this.'

God. 'And when you kill yourself trying?' Toru demands, but he's already turning his back, because it's that or punch Winner's lights out, even if that would be more productive. He makes himself walk back to the door, instead, stand in the corner like he's the one misbehaving. His hands are numb.

'Quatre.' It's Sun. She's had her hand in his for hours, but now she's standing up, stepping away. Winner almost keels over when she lets him go. 'Toru's right. You're not proving anything. And I'm not helping you anymore. I'm going to walk out that door now. Do you understand me? I'm not helping you do this.'

Winner wipes weakly at his eyes. 'Please.'

'No,' Sun says, implacable even as she kindly dabs his face with tissue. 'I'm done. And so should you be.' She kisses his cheek, and walks away from him. Toru slides his ID over the scanner at the door, to unlock it as she nears. He has the latch clicking open with his pull, Sun within the circle of his arm to escort her out when Winner finally caves.

The glow goes out. Winner drops his head back to the chair. 'Could I have one of my pills, please,' he asks mutedly.

Toru exhales a slow breath. He squeezes Sun's waist, and lets her go back to him.

'Thank God,' Micheko mutters to him later. 'It was like watching a man commit slow suicide.'

Toru picks beef au jus out of the cafeteria offerings and dumps it onto his tray. 'Death by idiocy.'

'Why do you think he went off the rails like that? I mean I assume that's what it was. He's always been reluctant to do anything Newtype-y in front of us before. Suddenly he's so fixed on it that he'll put himself in hospital over it? Commander says they're keeping him overnight for observation.'

Graves on Mars. And Barton back in Paris, and Heero Yuy locked away at Koh-i-Noor. 'He's alone again,' Toru says, and snags a water for himself out of the bin. Micheko takes a fruit tea, and they join the queue for the cashier. 'I think it hit him all at once. It's not just a legacy. This is his only chance to find someone else who might be like him. It's not functionally different from running away in search of Heero Yuy, knowing it might kill him out there.'

Micheko points out an unoccupied table near the windows, and they sit. Toru unfolds his napkin into his lap, but contents himself with the water for the moment, staring out at the evening dusk. Past sunset, the cityscape just looks grey and unwelcoming. He feels drained. He's not even sure why Winner made him so angry, doing that. But he did.

No. He knows. It wasn't just graves on Mars. Those eyes. Mama. Winner put him through that with no chance to think about it before or after, and even if he had the time to think on it, the answer is the same. He has no way of changing anything there even if he was sure it was her. It's a far worse kind of powerlessness than knowing his parents were gone all these years.

Micheko stirs her spoon slowly through her tomato bisque. 'I was thinking about something he said to Ivan Rzhevsky, back when he interviewed him in London.'

Toru sips his water. 'What.'

'He said, “I hide it well, but I'm mad.”'

'You think he is?'

'He kind of looked it, today.'

'He's frightened.' Toru inhales a deep cleansing breath, and unwraps his sandwich. 'Give him credit. It's scary, what he's doing. He's scared, so he did a stupid thing. He'll probably do more.'

Micheko purses her lips. 'I guess.' She swallows a bite of soup. 'I guess it's gratifying to know. He can make mistakes.'

'You didn't think so?'

'He's been two steps ahead of us since we brought him in. I'd prefer to think he has to fly by the seat of his pants sometimes, too.' She sips her soup again, and opens her tea. 'Sun impressed me. Maybe I was wrong about her, too. I thought Mr Winner was running that show. Maybe not as much as advertised.'

'Power's there to be used.' Although Micheko is right. He hadn't thought about it at the time, but Sun has really been the one in control the entire time, just by existing. As soon as she attached herself to Winner, he was dependent on her presence just to sit in rooms with Preventers. Maybe his plans for Newtypes would have gone forward if he hadn't had her there with him, but she's been a lynchpin for him. Her and Toru.

He doesn't like that thought. He doesn't know what to do with it now that he's thought it. He's never gone looking for power before. Even just power over one other person.

Micheko holds up her bottle, and waits for Toru to catch on and lift his as well. 'Cheers,' she says, clinking them together. 'A toast to the future of the Newtype programme. At least we know what we'll be doing for the next few years.'

'Yeah,' Toru says, his stomach sinking oddly. 'Cheers.'

 

**

 

He brings Winner a box of waffles drenched in icing sugar from the same cafeteria when he visits in the morning. The waffles are mostly cold by the time he makes it past the base hospital's check-in desk, the whipped butter melted into a congealing puddle, but Winner offers him a small smile in thanks anyway, solemnly unwrapping his plastic fork and knife and cutting a corner slice.

'Where's Sun?' Toru asks, pulling a visitor's chair to Winner's bedside.

'I sent her home last night.' Winner nods toward the rest of the empty room, positioned as it is at the end of the corridor. 'They made adequate provision for me. There was no need for her to be here, uncomfortable all night. Besides. She's not here to be my nursemaid.'

'Why is she here?' Toru asks bluntly. 'Tell me again you weren't surprised when she showed up. Wait. Give me a second to pretend I believe it.' He pulls an exaggeratedly innocent expression.

Winner does not quite roll his eyes. He eats his waffle. 'You know she hoodwinked us both. There'd be no stopping her from anything she did or did not want to do.'

'I know.' Toru leans back in his chair, sprawling his legs out. 'This is becoming a lingering mystery, though. Why she is here.'

'Maybe the mystery is why she waited so long to leave Koh-i-Noor.' Winner licks an errant smudge of sugar from his knuckle. 'She's inexperienced, not stupid. She would have had plenty of opportunities to run away from home, and no-one there could have stopped her or even found her again. I rather think she knew you were coming.'

'Or you.'

'Or me,' Winner repeats, his eyes tired and low on his food. 'For her sake, I hope not. I don't think I'd do her much good.'

'She's got a dad. She doesn't need you to be that.' Toru chews the inside of his cheek. 'Kindly uncle is probably enough.'

'You don't run away from paradise to hang about with a kindly uncle on a military compound you're not legally allowed to leave, Toru.'

Toru rubs his neck. 'Are you saying you just don't have it figured out?'

Winner finds the strawberries in the bin and concentrates on those. 'That's about the name of it.'

'That wouldn't have been shorter to say?'

'Limiting.'

Toru grins despite himself. 'I'd really like to be angry at you right now. What you did yesterday was crap.'

'Don't scold me.' Winner pushes his tray table aside, breakfast included, and lays back on his pillows. 'I had to.'

'Bull.'

'I did.' Winner regards him dully, fingers plucking the pilled cotton of his sheet. 'It was starting to be too easy. They see the difference that Sun makes. I had to lower their expectations. And it was your bloody advice, if you'll recall.'

' _My_ advice? I told you not to do too much too fast! Which is exactly what you did! The only thing you didn't give away is that you're capable of reaching Mars!'

'I showed them the consequences. I can't hide the capability, I can't hide that Sun truly does make a difference, and until we have more Newtypes here to know if her presence will affect others to the same degree, they'll believe the evidence of their eyes. I had to show them it still comes with a cost. And that the people making the choices matter. We're not automatons. We're people, and we'll do things they don't understand, or don't like, and we'll fight and we'll be upset and we'll make mistakes. They need to remember all of that.'

Toru pulls at his ponytail. 'I don't know, Quatre. I don't know if you accomplished that.' He drops his head back to look at the ceiling tiles. 'God. No. You know, I get really tired of trying to keep up with this side of you. Stop having three motivations for every breath. Just-- stop trying to manipulate everything. It's exhausting.'

'If I stop, you can be sure Preventers won't. Should I be content with whatever they decide for all Newtypes? For whatever that means for you and Sun and all the others like you?'

'I thought you were all for working together now!' Toru sucks in a big breath and makes himself hold it for ten seconds. 'I thought you were past this paranoia. This is not okay.'

'I'm not trying to upset you.'

'Well, you are.' He yanks out his hair elastic and itches his skull, scrapes his hair out of his face again, behind his ears. Winner is not looking at him when Toru finally decides he's ready to face the man again, and Toru sighs. 'I didn't kick you. Don't look like I did.'

Winner laughs abruptly. 'Yes, sir.' He folds his arms over his chest with some of his usual aplomb, nevermind his ridiculous striped hospital pyjamas. 'I'm sorry. I apologise.'

'I don't care. I mean, I don't care if you're suspicious of Preventers, because I get that. You're probably not wrong. I just—'

'I'm sorry about the other night. About forcing the Mars issue on you before you were ready. I should have waited til you asked me.'

He flexes his hands. He waits for emotion. There's got to be something in him, anger, worry, agitation. Heartache. But there isn't. He keeps waiting for it, but there isn't.

'I wouldn't have asked,' he admits slowly. 'I don't know if it would have occurred to me or not. I asked Ishaq, when he was here. He tried to use his ability. I think it was too far for him. And I think, in all honesty, I was kind of relieved about that. I'm used to not knowing. I've always thought it was easier not to know than to know and be hurt by it.' He bites the inside of his cheek again, hard enough to sting. 'That's why you never tried, isn't it. All those years at St John's.'

'I don't know.' Winner shakes his head, just a tiny, tight little motion of remorse. 'It never occurred to me. All those years. It ought to have done.'

'The pieces weren't there yet. You needed Ivan Rzhevsky's ability.' He quirks an eyebrow at Winner. 'Which means you needed Preventers to bring you in on the case.'

Winner closes his eyes. A faint smile apears on his mouth. 'I don't much like the notion of pre-destiny.'

'When it's not you pulling the strings?' He gestures, a peace offering in the wave of his fingers, and without so much as seeing him Winner passes him the rest of the waffles. Toru picks them over with the fork, looking for bits that aren't too dry or too soggy. 'I told Commander I wanted to see Rzhevsky's kill list. Assuming that I'm on it. She hasn't talked to me since then.'

Winner first purses his lips and starts to speak, then purses his lips again and doesn't. Toru cuts a three-waffle-layer bite and stuffs in it so he doesn't have to talk. At last Winner shrugs. 'Do you think she'll let you see it?'

'She'd have to get me special clearances. Probably not. Junior agents don't usually get cleared for that until they rise to senior status. I'm years out from that.' He finds another good bite and shoves it toward his left cheek. 'Kinda stupid,' he says around it, with a shrug of his own as if he's blowing it off.

But Winner reads minds, and knows better. 'You're asking did Rzhevsky know who you are.'

Toru concentrates on getting a square of still-liquid butter to spill over into another contiguous waffle section with just the tip of his knife. _You were in his head. I can't get the classified file, but... you might know._

Winner negates that hope with a shake of his head. 'If he did, he never thought about it near me. I'm sorry.'

It's okay. It's not like it matters, at this point. Rzhevsky is dead, and his kill list goes to the ground with him. Toru swallows a suddenly tasteless mouthful of waffle mush, and closes the lid on the rest of it.

'It does matter,' Winner corrects quietly. 'If you think he might have tipped off Preventers to the existence of Newtykes.'

'You said he only suspected it. That Newtype parents might produce something unknown.'

'So far as I know. You don't think anyone higher in your command have pursued it?'

'I don't think I'd be in a position to know.' He drops the waffles into the garbage pail. 'Unless they're leaving me near you to watch how we interact. If they're watching me. I fit the profile, too. And if I'm on that list, even if it's just my parents on that list, they'd be stupid not to be watching me. And they're not stupid.'

'You can't do anything about it.'

He doesn't dare say this aloud. Even thinking it is barely bearable. _I could leave._

'And go where that they couldn't reach you?' Winner points out quietly. 'Let me draw their attention. Let me be the one they watch, Toru. I told you before it's time for me to protect you.'

'Can you do that without winding up in hospital again?'

'No promises,' Winner answers serenely. 'Now be a dear and get me checked out, will you?'

 

'How long has it been since you've handled a gun?' Micheko asks, laying out a row of clips on a flannel.

'I was rather younger than you,' Winner replies dubiously. 'Younger than Toru, for that matter.'

'Hence practise.' Micheko brings Winner to the ledge of their range window, pointing when he hesitates over the gun. 'I've already loaded it. This is a standard .22 calibre. We'll just run targets until you're comfortable, and then we'll run you through the full license test. It's about twenty minutes long and measures reaction time as well as accuracy.'

'You're not going to do this with Sun, are you?'

'Not now, anyway,' Toru answers. 'She's not going to be part of the core team for the initial Newtype pick-ups. If she ever does need to come, we'll address the question of arming her.'

'I'll just lodge my objection now.' Winner picks up the gun with a little moue of distaste, passing it from hand to hand, turning it this way and that. 'My hands were smaller when I was a teenager,' he observes. 'It's different than I remember.'

'Sig Sauer Mosquito,' Micheko tells Winner. She touches each feature as she names it. 'Blow-back operated, slide-locked, ambidextrous safety. Red-dot sight mount, and you're going to learn with and without scope. Double-action-single-action trigger.'

Toru hangs a target from a clip and uses the button to send it flying gently out. They have this half of the range to themselves, this time of morning, though there's a middle-aged agent on the other side who seems to be taking out some frustration in privacy. Winner will have to log the hours in a fast slog to get his license, before they head out. He has a feeling they won't be waiting long before they pick a destination.

Winner eyes him sideways. 'Right,' he says. He lays down the gun long enough to shrug out of his suit coat, draping it aside on the bench along the back wall. He rolls up his shirtsleeves. 'If I'm terrible, just don't mention it to anyone, please. All we've got at St John's is table tennis.'

'Feet at shoulder-width,' Toru instructs him. 'Focus on your sight and keep the pistol as still as you can. Level. Keep your trigger finger relaxed, keep your grip tight. You're going to depress the trigger without tightening your hand muscles. Just move your forefinger slowly. Stay on aim, focus on the foresight, don't even think about--'

Winner fires. Five times in a short tight burst of noise. Toru presses his lips together. Micheko raises her eyebrows.

'Sorry,' Winner says sheepishly. He nudges his headphones off with one shoulder. 'I think that might have been habit.'

'At least you didn't empty the clip.' Toru removes his own headphones. 'Well, I guess let's see how you did.' He recalls the target sheet. 'If you were gaming us about being out of practise...'

Winner virtuously puts his hand to his heart. 'Not even a visit to one of Trowa's shops.'

'I bet he'd be something to see,' Micheko says. 'He probably knows every brand of gun inside and out.'

'Trowa always believed in quantity over quality,' Winner tells her. 'Absolutely no finesse as long as he had a big supply of bullets.'

'Well that's disappointing.'

Toru leans out over the ledge to grab the sheet as it comes rocking in. He shakes his head over it immediately. Five holes punched neatly through the heart, a good cluster. 'You're a liar.'

'I'm hardly! Not about that.'

'Get him a better gun,' he tells Micheko. 'Try the Browning.' He loads a fresh target sheet and sends it out. Farther out. 'I've never seen you run. Maybe we should get you out on the track. You could join in PT. You could stand to be in better shape.'

'Training with a crowd of boisterous young agents isn't going to be of much use to me.' Winner practises with the sight while Micheko fetches the gun from the quartermaster. He thinks to put the safety on, which Toru approves. He may be a long time out of practise, but he's got the right practises in place. 'I'm not convinced I need to be armed. Preventers didn't rush to arm me during the Rzhevsky case.'

'And he managed to inject you with poison, knock me out, tie us both up in a fortified basement dungeon laboratory, inject you with poison again...'

'We were trying to get him to talk, you know. Shooting someone usually affects their willingness to incriminate themselves.'

'I'll bear that in mind.' Toru leans on the wall with his hands in his pockets, slumping comfortably. 'How did you tell him?'

'Tell who what?' Winner sets the gun down on the towel and sniffs his hands, wipes them off with a shudder. 'You're thinking about Barton. And Agent Walker.'

'How'd you tell him that you loved him?'

The way Winner screws his mouth to the side suggests he is burying a smile. Toru doesn't call him on it. He's too busy being mindful of every tiny noise that might suggest Micheko's on her way back. With a gun. For to shoot him with, just for the thought.

'She won't,' Winner says. 'You know that, don't you.'

'I don't know what the hell I do know about it.' He has to wipe off his own hands, suddenly sweaty. 'How'd you tell him?'

'After sex. I thought if I gave him the perfect night he'd turn into Shakespeare or Whitman.'

Toru scrunches his nose. 'Ew.'

'Well,' Winner says mildly. 'I was fifteen.'

'Did it work?'

'Not really. He kneed me in the nose. Surprise and blow--' Winner evaluates Toru's expression and doesn't finish that sentence. 'Certain angles,' he says instead. 'Surprise and certain angles don't mix. Anyway, it was quite humiliating. But it gave us something to laugh about, years later.'

'It took years?'

'To laugh about it.' Winner cocks his head. 'Four months, a bad bout of amnesia and a psychotic break between us, almost losing a war, getting stabbed, the Battle of Libra, the near-destruction of the planet, and he finally managed to choke out the words. But I knew. I've always known.'

'What if I don't? What if I'm not that certain?'

Winner only smiles. 'Then wait,' he says. 'When you're ready, you won't be able to hold it in. Humiliating timing or not.'

'I just-- I don't know. I really don't. There's so much shit I don't know right now.'

'You really are starting to swear too much,' Winner reproves him.

'Oh, I wonder whose damn fault that is?' He grins at Winner. 'Just... don't say anything to her.'

'Mum's the word.' Winner mirrors his pose, hands in his pockets, tapping his heel on the wall behind him. 'You're not still uncertain about her loyalty to you?'

Yes. No. Yes, realistically. He only feels better about it because they're talking again and she's not being cold, because Sally is being so horrible about everything and it makes Micheko look better by default. He knows. He doesn't know what it means for the future, is all.

'I guess I know I should be,' he answers finally.

'When your mutual cause was Preventers, you didn't have doubts about each other. Now your cause is in flux, and hers isn't. That happens in life. The question you have to ask is whether the bond you share is really about the cause you happened to have in common, or if you'll follow each other through hell and fire because love is enough. Your parents did,' Winner says. 'In some ways I think that kind of loyalty is so much harder, because your friends and comrades can't share in it with you.'

'I've never thought of it that way.' He'd known the timeline of his parents finding the Resistance from different paths, his mother through Sanq and the Pacifists, his father through White Fang. He'd never really thought about what it must have been like for them.

'Hard,' Winner says. 'I expect. Even without the Newtype issue.'

'Can't forget about that,' Toru mutters.

'No,' Winner agrees. 'Micheko knows?'

'Some,' Toru hedges, finding the laminate floor suddenly interesting. 'A lot. Not all.'

'Good,' Winner says, but Toru never gets a chance to ask if it's good that she knows a lot or good that she doesn't know everything. She's back.

'Sorry for the wait,' Micheko calls out cheerfully as she rounds the corner. 'Decided to check out a couple options. You ever handled a Desert Eagle?' She slows as she joins them. 'Did I interrupt something?'

'No,' Winner replies smoothly. 'Desert Eagle? You don't really think I'm going to need something with that kind of stopping power?'

'Less for self defence, more for target practise.' Micheko lays out the equipment. 'No muzzle break. Let's get you used to recoil again.'

'As my teachers command,' Winner sighs, and lets Micheko walk him through loading the weapon. He absolutely does not look at Toru, and Toru absolutely does not look at him. Or her. Lots of interesting floor to inspect.


	25. Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'You frighten me,' Winner says. 'You frighten me for you. I think... what you can do. What you might be capable of.'_

'You sure he's not just napping?' Ricciardi asks from the backseat.

'No,' Toru snaps back. 'Again.' He flips the turn indicator and slows, letting himself catch the light. 'This is just his process.'

'Slow as hell process,' Ricciardi grumbles, slumping back on his bench. Dawes, the more tolerant of the partners, only catches Toru's eyes in the rear mirror, quirking an eyebrow with a smile.

Still. _Anything at all?_ Toru thinks at Winner-- just in case. He utterly expects the tiny shake he gets in return, and tries not to sigh. It's only been five hours. It took a couple of days to track down Rzhevsky. And it's probably too much to expect that they can repeat that kind of success with their new Newtypes. Specially in a place none of them are overly familiar. London may not have been home to any of them, but the colonies are as foreign as it gets. Even Winner's been out of Space for longer than he ever lived there.

'Hey.' Micheko leans up from the middle seat of the van to pass him a bottled water. Toru completes his corner turn, and puts up a hand to receive it. 'One for Mr Winner, too.'

'I'll put it here.' As he lays the bottle beside Winner's thigh, he checks the bag of crisps. Empty. Same with the sandwich bag. 'We're out of food up here.'

'Same back here.' Dawes leans up to rest his arms and then his chin on the back of Micheko's bench. 'You gonna make it to supper, Craft, or ought we stop for second-lunch?'

'Har har.' He glances at Winner again as they head up yet another sidestreet. L1's streetplan makes it easy to drive, at least. Everything is one-way, wide avenues, and parking is well-regulated to community or commercial structures. People walk to one side, wait courteously at lights, cross only at junctions. There's no billboards, no bright flashing poster lights, no hollering crowds jostling each other for sales and space. There are police every few blocks, in marked vehicles and in grey uniforms standing vigilance on corners. If it lacks a little of the cheerful chaos of an Earthside city, at least it-- well, it seems to explain, a bit, some of Winner's peculiarilities. Toru hasn't travelled enough to know if all the colonies are like this, but all the ones he's ever seen are. Maybe it's easier to become a radical if you grow up staring at all this sameness everywhere and wondering how people let themselves get that way. Or maybe it's just all that more remarkable that the colonies bred as many revolutionaries as they did, considering how hard it must have been to be different.

He stops at the next 'halt' sign and sets the brake. He picks up Winner's iPod and pauses playback. Winner's head rolls toward him.

'Hey,' Toru says. He reaches for the big noise-cancelling earphones Winner's wearing and lifts one side. 'Hey. Look, in all candour, I have to whizz.'

Winner sighs. He rubs wearily at his eyes, which look, to Toru's concern, redder than they should. 'I wouldn't mind a bit of air. I don't feel very well.'

'I told you not to push it.'

'I've been mindful.' Winner smiles briefly at him. 'But a break would be welcome.'

The little amenities that Toru has always taken for granted, restaurants, coffee houses, even the corner bakery, don't appear to exist on L1. There's a grocery, with that noticeable but unmoving policy presence, advertising an internal café, and so they park there, for want of anything more private. Winner faces away from the stream of people going in and out with carts, and Toru, still playing the role of junior-most agent, has the task of jogging in to fetch drinks and snacks. He queues for a cashpoint, using his Preventers account to withdraw colonial banknotes. The faces on the notes must be famous, but they're unknown to Toru. They might be unknown to Winner, even, after so many years away.

Winner is standing outside the van when Toru returns. 'Ahoy,' he greets Toru, removing his dark glasses. 'Any luck?'

'I just bought anything with protein.' And chocolate for Micheko. He passes the bag inside through the open window, and hands Winner a hot tea. 'For real, how are you doing?'

'Fading.' Winner scrapes a knuckle over his eyes. 'I haven't had any sense of her. I think she's moved on.'

'Then let's get you away from all these people. You can try Rzhevsky's ability from a hotel. Locate her again. It'll be easier now that you know who you're looking for, right?'

'We don't know what her ability is. She might sense me. She might be able to shield herself from me, if she knows I'm here.'

'Let's not go chasing problems.' Toru glances skyward before remembering there's no sky, and thus no sun. He checks his watch instead, adding six hours for L1 time. 'You're still on your feet,' he notes. 'Didn't think you would be.'

'Your Commander prescribed medication,' Winner tells him, looking off with a squint to the distance. 'We had an extensive discussion about possible effects. I take it I'm surprising you with this information.'

'You take it correctly.' Toru sucks in his cheeks and bites them. 'What's it doing to you? Never mind. You trust what it's doing to you?'

'It seems efficacious.' Winner reconnects their gazes, gives him a little grimace. 'If not a bit nausea-inducing. My stomach's been off all day.'

'I guess we take off over incapacitated.' Toru pries off the lid of his own coffee to sip. 'There, uh, any reason you waited til now to tell me Po gave you meds?'

'Yon Preventers.' Winner nods at the car. 'We haven't had a private moment since the launchpad. Think that's coincidence?'

'You think it's not?'

'You said they might be watching you.'

The soft pitch of Winner's voice barely carries that. The placement of his teacup blocks his lips. Anyone sitting in the vehicle watching won't glean anything from that.

'You comfortable taking the new pills?' he asks finally. 'They're not-- I don't know. Bunging you up?' He hears himself, and adds hastily, 'Your ability. The mental stuff. Not-- other-- stuff, I mean, um--'

'I understand you, Toru,' Winner interrupts wearily. 'And the honest answer is that I didn't see I had much choice.' He opens the door. 'We can get in a few more hours before hotel check-in, can't we?'

'Hey.' He puts his hand on the door, in the guise of helping Winner into the passenger seat. Instead, he thinks at Winner, _It's not Rzhevsky's formula? That stuff he jabbed you with in London?_

'Mm,' Winner says, and slides his legs in.

_You know I'm not the mind-reader of the two of us._

Winner catches his eye. 'Mm,' he says again, and pulls the door closed.

 

**

 

'Dinner.' Toru drops the shopping bags on the bed. 'Where's Quatre?'

'End of the hall.' Dawes stretches out an arm for the nearest, digging through. He turns up an eyebrow at the falafel and the shwarma, and settles for the hamburger instead. 'Walker's with him. They're doing magic tricks.'

'Mind voodoo,' Ricciardi adds, wiggling his fingers out of his forehead. 'Locating the Newtype.'

'Yeah,' Toru says briefly, choosing not to engage in that. Everyone's a little punchy after a long day, and Ricciardi is usually punchier than most. It seems to be drawing out some of the worst in Dawes, and Toru is too tired to deal with it. 'Off-shift in half an hour. Relax. I'll ride it out with Winner if he needs anything.'

'Don't play nanny, Craft,' Dawes advises, sprawling back on one of the double beds with his meal. 'It's the sort of duty that sticks with you if you don't shake it fast.'

'It's not nanny if he really does need someone looking after him.'

'He's a grown man.' Dawes manages a huge bite almost simultaneously with a slurp of his fizzy pop. 'Just a nutter.'

'Right.' He grabs a bag of food and heads for the door. 'See you later.'

'Hey, Craft, I didn't mean nuthin' by it.'

There's something just a little off now in the way Dawes says his name. They haven't talked about it, whether or not Dawes actually knew who he was before Toru advertised it during his fight with Sally. Lately Toru thinks maybe not. Dawes is trying to be normal, maybe for the sake of the team. Maybe because it's too odd for him, otherwise. Maybe because Toru is just a junior agent, determined to be a grown man's nanny, and Dawes had written him off until the word Peacecraft came into the argument.

'Yeah, no, I know.' Toru sets a shoulder to the door and pushes out. 'See you for breakfast in the lobby.'

'He's meditating,' Micheko tells him, when he joins them in Winner's room. 'He's been at it for a while. I don't think it's working.'

Toru peers at Winner through his lashes while he passes Micheko her food. No glow. 'You sure he's not napping?' he whispers.

'I heard that,' Winner says.

'You wouldn't have, if you were properly meditating.' Toru sits beside him on the dingy hotel carpet. They really ought to have found a nicer place. This one looks clean enough, but it's seen better days.

'It's the colonies,' Winner informs him, opening his eyes to take the shwarma. 'Our better days are very long gone.'

'Oh, you're colonial? I didn't know that.'

'Hardy har,' Winner says primly. He picks wearily at the foil wrapping, takes a small bite. 'Aren't you eating?'

'I ate on the way back from the shop.'

'Liar. You're still hungry.' He tears the flatbread in half and shares it. 'No, I won't finish. Might as well go to that black hole you call a stomach. Micheko, dear-- thank you.' He accepts a water from her with a wan smile.

'No luck?' Toru asks then, around a mouthful. The chicken isn't very good. Kind of burnt. There might be something to that better days theory.

'Sometimes I think I've found her. Then it's gone immediately. It's as if--' Winner hesitates, poking at his bread. 'Maybe it's the medication.'

'Medication?' Micheko asks.

'Are we talking openly about this?' Toru interjects.

'I'm too tired to concoct some fancy half-truth.' Winner eats, chewing mechanically. Micheko sips her water, pretending not to be watching him, and Toru surrenders. 'I'm just annoyed,' Winner says then. 'Annoyed and bitter.'

'If this is about Trowa--'

'It's not about Trowa. You told me to grow up and I believe I haven't raised the subject, now have I.' Winner gives up on his food with a grouchy flick of his fingers in Toru's direction, more or less simultaneous with the kick Toru takes to his back from Micheko's shoe. Toru screws his mouth to the side, wondering if it's worth defending himself. Probably not.

'Perhaps bitter isn't a strong enough word,' Winner continues. 'I've been out-manoeuvred.'

Micheko opens her mouth, and closes it. Winner looks up, his lips pinched. As if she can't help it, she begins to laugh. 'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I mean, your _face_ , but-- I mean-- well, it's about time someone managed.'

Winner relents with a shadowed smile. 'Perhaps.'

'So whodunit?' Toru finishes his half of the shwarma in a few quick bites and wipes his fingers on his trousers. 'You mean out-manoeuvred on the medication? By whom?'

'Preventers.' Winner drags a pillow off the bed and props it behind him. 'I thought I was terribly clever. I've wasted rather a lot of money. My accountant won't be pleased.'

'I think I'm missing some of this conversation,' Micheko says.

'And I think I'm starting to get it,' Toru adds. 'You mean the injections you were taking. Rzhevsky's serum.'

'We wondered how Rzhevsky managed to develop it alone. He was no scientist. But he didn't have to be, did he. He was never the one who invented it.' Winner sighs, his eyes drooping closed. 'Preventers had it all along.'

Micheko sits forward on the bed. 'Wait--'

'The formula I told you about in Brussels,' Toru says, admitting both the fault and the timeline. Winner doesn't blink at it, but that may be weariness. Or acceptance. All the running about that got them from Winner's escape out of Brussels to Winner's eventual return in India feels like lost time. 'Quatre had some lab somewhere trying to make it safe. So that is what Po gave you.'

'Not by the same name. And Sally's not always easy to read. But I believe so. And that's what has me so irritated. I thought I was running well ahead of the game, setting my own terms by trying to develop it. I wonder how many years late I am-- ten. Twenty. Maybe so far back as the first Newtype. Surely it occurred to them when Heero Yuy was assassinated.'

'Just to be clear,' Micheko says carefully. 'Commander Po gave you Rzhevsky's formula?'

'I'm quite sure Preventers gave it to Rzhevsky years before they thought of giving it to me,' Winner tells her flatly. 'Knowingly or otherwise. Preventers always wanted to know as much about us as possible, and surely that would include the most simple route to neutralisation. They've had a half-dozen samples of my blood, the first when I was fifteen. Trowa was right to be paranoid about it. How many other Newtypes? Did you subject Ishaq to it while he was in custody with you?'

Toru doesn't know. He doesn't think so, but he doesn't know, and doesn't know if Khosa would have mentioned it. 'Look,' he says finally. 'Be bitter if you want, but let's be honest, also. You're tilting at a windmill.'

'Oh, am I.'

'Yes. This stuff exists. Whoever developed it. So accept that. There's two immediate questions you have to answer. First: if it is Rzhevsky's formula, then that was designed to block your abilities, so is that really the best approach to be taking when you need to actually use them?'

'So this is why you've been okay all day?' Micheko asks. 'I thought maybe whatever Sun was doing for you just had a good shelf life.'

'Not to speak of.' Winner fiddles with his scarf, running the warp edge between his fingers. 'I don't know. If I don't take this, I'll be my usual charming self by morning. My abilities may work at their fullest range, but that means I'll be bombarded by the thoughts and feelings of every human mind packed into the torus within that range. There's forty-three thousand people in this ring alone.'

'Only for as long as you need to locate the Newtype.'

Winner favours Toru with both open eyes. Unblinking for a long minute. 'Yes,' he says finally. 'That's true.'

'You're the one who went to pains to point out it wouldn't be easy.'

'So I did.' Winner wets his lower lip, and breathes out slowly. 'You had-- you had a second point.'

'Yeah.' Micheko is sitting there listening avidly, but Winner hasn't found a reason to get rid of her yet, and Toru can only take that as deliberate. Besides. Winner might be annoyed on his own behalf, but there's only one thing that would make him bitter, and that's thinking of this before Toru did. So he just says it, and he doesn't say it for Winner's benefit, but for Micheko's. 'Second immediate question you have to ask yourself: which agent has the medication ready for the Newtype when we get her?'

He doesn't look directly at her while he says it. But from the corner of his eyes he sees her expression go blank and closed. She looks down at her hands. It might be shame.

'It's not expressly forbidden by the contract,' Winner answers. 'Preventers' methods were never on the table. Just the aftermath.'

'If you find her.'

'I've come this far.'

'Rzhevsky probably said that to himself at some point.'

Winner lifts his chin. 'You need to stop before you say something you can't take back, Toru.'

He hears the warning in that. Not that he'll personally offend Winner, although that's possible, comparing him to a serial murderer. He's sorry for that. But that's not what Winner meant. Comparing Preventers to a serial murderer. They're in on this all the way, and if they want to bring down the Newtypes one way or another, Toru had better not act like he thinks it's wrong in front of someone who's still technically reporting on him to his superiors.

He pushes to his feet. 'Whatever you decide to do, keep meditating. It helps.'

Winner nods stiffly. 'I'll let you know immediately if-- anything changes.'

'I'll be back with a wake-up at six.'

'Good night.'

Micheko follows him out to the hall. 'Tense,' is all she comments.

'Yeah.' Toru rubs both eyes vigorously, strips out his ponytail. 'Sorry, I think.'

'You think?' She laughs softly. 'God, Toru, you're a mess. And the worst is that you know it, and you actively try to make it worse.'

'Not, I don't know. Not actively.'

He doesn't really see the kiss coming. It's just suddenly happening. It's a serious sort of kiss, not a peck of affection. He hesitates for a second because he's still thinking about that question he asked in Winner's room, about which agent has the task of bringing down the Newtype if she won't come peacefully, but Micheko slides her arms about his neck and leans on him so that he can feel her body pressed against his, and he goes from one kind of distracted to another in a heartbeat. Her hair smells so good, and when he slides his hands up her back he can feel the strap of her bra. Her tongue is in his mouth.

When she finally lets him breathe, she nips his chin, slumping comfortably against him. 'Well, that answers the third question,' she murmurs, her voice carrying no farther than the thunder of his blood pressure in his ears.

'Huh?' He tightens his arms around her. 'What?'

She shifts her hip just a little, brushing against his groin. Toru flushes hotly, realising his body's given him away. But when he drops her and tries to adjust his trousers discreetly, she only laughs. He rubs his overheated cheek.

'Cards on the table?'

'What?'

'You can come to my room and we can do something about that. And it doesn't have to mean anything about Preventers or even about us. Just that--' She licks her lips, bites them together. 'Just that this is one thing we seem to have that's always independent of whatever else is going on. You know?'

'I don't know,' he admits forthrightly. 'And I don't know about it existing separate of Preventers, either. Does it?'

There's a flicker of something in her eyes. Hurt, maybe, or doubt. 'Okay,' she says, nothing else, and turns away. 'See you in the morning.'

'Wait.' He curses himself for it even as he goes after her. He catches her elbow. 'Just... cards on the table, right. You would tell me. If this was about anything other than-- this.'

'If you don't trust me, Craft, I don't see what the point is.'

'You don't trust me,' he points out.

'I do.' Micheko brushes his hair back from his face. 'I trust you to do what you believe is right. I just don't trust you to always think it through, first.'

Maybe that's fair. He doesn't know. But looking down at her, he realises that they trust opposite things about each other. He trusts her to think it through. But not necessarily to do the right thing. At least not the way he thinks about right and wrong. A year ago they might not have thought of it differently. A year ago, he hadn't known he was a Newtyke.

It's rash. It's beyond impulsive. And it proves her damn point, but he does it anyway. He looks her in the eye and he does it the way he does with Winner, pushing the thought out at her.

_I want to be able to love you._

Her sharp inhale confirms she heard him. Her wide eyes, dark with surprise. Shock.

And regret floods him. 'No,' he croaks. 'Um, I-- am-- tired. I'll see you later. Good night.'

'Toru!'

He outright sprints around the corner toward his room. He drops everything in his pocket trying to get it out, mixes his keycard with Winner's, and has to try both before he figures out which works his door. Micheko is following him. He gets the door open, but she stops him closing it on her, throwing up a hand and getting her shoulder lodged against it. Defeated, he lets her shove her way in. She locks them in, and they stand there in the dark, close enough for his skin to crawl feeling her there, but blinded by the sudden lack of light.

'That was what I think it was?' she asks at last, her voice coming just left of where he'd thought she was.

'What did you think it was?' he stalls.

'So you really are--'

'No. I'm not a Newtype.'

'You're obviously something.'

'It's complicated.'

'That, I believe.' She steps closer. Her hand brushes his sleeve. 'Quatre knows?'

'He'd know even if I tried to hide it. Of course he knows.'

'And Commander Po?'

He tries to speak. He can't. She doesn't ask again. 'What are you going to do?' she presses him, instead. 'You can't keep this a secret forever. Did you-- when we first--'

He catches her meaning. 'I didn't know for sure until-- really recently. And I don't know what the hell to do about it.'

'You know Commander suspects you.'

'I know.' He rubs his nose. 'She must have put me with Quatre and Rzhevsky thinking one of them would give me away if I really were a Newtype. It probably disappointed her.'

'Only until she finds out you can-- whatever you just did. Do it again.'

'No!'

'But you can do it again. I mean, you can control it. It's an ability, like Mr Winner.' Micheko takes his jacket in both fists, tugging at him. 'You said... you said you want to love me.'

'I guess.'

'Is it true?'

'I guess.' He tries not to squirm; Micheko's close enough to feel it. 'I-- um.' She's pushing his jacket off his shoulders. One sleeve tangles with his watch, and he flaps his hand until it falls off. 'What?'

'Say it again.'

His mouth is impossibly dry. 'I. You, uh, you want me to?'

'Toru.' She twists open his shirt buttons, one by one, and reaches his belt buckle while he stammers. 'Say it again.'

At least it's dark enough she can't see him blush. 'I love you,' he manages.

She swallows the last word into a kiss. Deeper even than the last one, and it lights him on fire from toes to scalp. He grabs her up, pulls her legs about his waist, and carries her into the room, aiming blindly at the bed he knows is in there somewhere. He hits a bureau with his knee and his curse emerges crushed against her lips. He finds the mattress with his shoe and lets gravity take them diving onto it, slipping awkwardly on the corner and finding purchase with a mad flail of arms and legs. There's too much fabric between them, trousers and shirts and pants beneath all that, but then she shifts just right somehow and he finds her and slides inside her in a gasp. They pause like that, limbs all akimbo and the duvet bunched up in clumps in their fists, and he can feel every inch of his body burning.

She stretches slowly under him, her back arching, pulling at her bra until it's out of the way and he can touch her. He gets solid purchase for his knees, finally, and they move in something like concert, mouths roaming bare skin. They roll, and she's straddling him, hips heaving until she comes with a soft groan, and then they roll again, and crushed so tightly together there's not even room for sweat he shudders to completion. And he does feel that way, utterly complete, as if she had to be there all along to make him feel like this, whole.

This is what it's supposed to feel like, he thinks, sleepy with satisfaction. This is storybook love. You tell the perfect woman you're a freak of nature, she accepts you anyway, and then you have amazing, life-affirming sex.

He's laughing at himself as they finally separate, falling to clumsy reality as they stretch out beside each other.

'Shit,' Micheko mutters, searching for a pillow.

'What?'

'Condom.'

'Oh.' He never even thought about it. 'Are you, uh, you on the pill or anything?'

'Now he asks.' She finds a pillow on the floor and brushes it off with a hand. 'Better hope, huh.'

'We can find a pharmacy tomorrow.'

'Yeah, that's going to be really easy to explain to all my fellow male agents. And Quatre. He acts like my uncle, you know. I don't need my uncle to know my sex habits.' She lifts her head. 'Shit. He's going to read our minds. He'll know anyway. Wait-- he does read minds, doesn't he? You haven't been talking to him all this time?'

'He reads minds.' And they were well within range. He'd probably already had more of their sex habit than he could ignore. 'Cheko?'

'Hm?' She finds his hand and winds their fingers together. 'I like that. Cheko.'

'You don't mind. Well, care. About--'

'We'll talk about it later,' she promises, around a yawn. 'We have a lot we'll have to figure out. But not now. Now sleep.'

He's nearly there when he realises. She'd never said it back.

 

**

 

Toru is still dressing when he gets the knock at half-five. Dawes is closest, and opens it, stepping back to reveal Winner standing there in the hall.

'You look like shit,' Toru tells him, stuffing in his shirt and belting his trousers. 'You okay?'

'If you could make a run to the chemist for me,' Winner says, swaying back when Ricciardi emerges from the bath. His hand at his head stays tight to his temple. 'I need headache tabs.'

'Sure.' Toru grabs his shoes and jacket and hurries for the door. 'Did you-- I mean, um--'

'I wrote down the name.' Winner hands him a folded slip of paper from one of the hotel pads. 'You might take the time to pick up anything else anyone might need.'

Ah. Well, that answers for whether Winner heard him and Micheko last night. Trying to keep red out of his face, Toru pulls the door shut behind him. 'Thanks,' he says, shoving the paper into his shirt pocket. 'Don't, um, say anything, okay?'

'Don't get yourself in trouble. Specially that kind of trouble.' Winner lifts his dark glasses. There are pouchy grey circles under his eyes. 'You're a bit young for clinics.'

'Jeez,' Toru stutters, shocked. 'Hey, even if she did get, um, they, there's-- morning after pills, and we were planning on--'

Winner purses his lips. 'I was thinking more like mutually unpleasant realities. Unless you carry a blood test in your toiletries kit.'

Toru rubs at his overheated neck. 'Like you and Barton were all that careful,' he mutters. 'Or did I sleepwalk through a pharmacy run for you on the way back from India?'

'Johnnies are two a bob in the airport loo,' Winner informs him. 'Carry some pocket change. You'd best go. And take Agent Walker with you. I think the lady would prefer a hand in this herself. Don't forget my pills.'

'So you did decide to stop the stuff Commander gave you?'

'Yes, and I feel I'm being hammered with mallets.' Winner turns up the hall. 'I'll be in my room. There's something odd about the Newtype. Let's not drag it out.'

'Odd?' Micheko repeats, when he tells her amid the pharmacy aisles. She lingers, he can't help but notice, over the shelf of pregnancy tests. It's right next to the shelf of other, delicately named 'family planning' aids, and it's possible that's what she's looking at, but he's not sure. Toru grabs a box of condoms. Switches it out for the extra-large box.

'Odd. I don't know. I didn't think to ask. He was hustling me out the door.' Painkillers are three aisles over. Toru shuffles toward them, trailing his fingers along many bottles along the way. Micheko is slow to follow, but he hears her back there, her soles striking the tiles. 'He agreed. To stop taking whatever Commander was giving him.'

'That's what strikes me as odd. That Po would give him something that blocks his abilities. Kind of beside the point of what we're here to do, isn't it?'

'If that's what it's really doing.'

'You think he lied?'

'No,' Toru admits. 'But he may not know for sure. It's trying to prove a negative.' He halts before the headache medications. There's a lot to choose from. Winner's brand is there, the migraine pills he's used since Toru met him. Toru adds a box of that to their basket. 'Maybe he's got some base assumptions at play that aren't totally on.'

'I'll bite.' Micheko bends and selects a bottle of muscle relaxer. 'Maybe we can keep him from getting a headache in the first place. So-- base assumptions?'

'Like assuming that Preventers would only be interested in subduing Newtypes.'

Micheko raises her eyebrows inquisitively. 'Interesting.'

'To be fair, I've been thinking that too.' Toru picks up a card for a bio-feedback system, frowning over it. 'But I'm not sure why. Well, I am sure. Quatre's so convinced it's about a war. Either a war between Newtypes and everyone else, or a war that everyone else needs Newtypes to win. Why focus so much on the consequences of the first and ignore the latter?'

'He wasn't,' Micheko says. 'He was doing what he always does. Misdirecting us from even thinking about the idea that Newtypes could be better allies than liabilities.' When Toru looks askance, Micheko merely shrugs. 'Didn't Barton tell us that Preventers brought them in several times? Even Quatre admitted it. It was never punitive. Not even preventative, really. They wanted him to be an ally.'

'Blood tests.' Toru inhales slowly through the nose. 'He said they had his blood from decades back. They were developing some kind of... serum... to help?'

'And Rzhevsky took it in the opposite direction.' Micheko takes the card from his hand and replaces it on the shelf. 'We'll probably never know. Realistically.'

But it makes sense. Too much sense. No-one in Preventers is stupid, and the possibility had to have occurred to someone, at least when they'd lost so many Newtypes to the exile to Mars.

The exiles. With all those high-profile Newtypes. Who had been agitators before they had been exiles, fighting for sovereignty. Fighting in a breed of mobile suits that don't exist any more either, a whole generation of pilots of specialised suits, erased when they couldn't be tamed.

But they had been defeated. Somehow.

'Let's just buy this stuff and go,' Micheko says then. 'If Quatre is headed for a meltdown, we'd better keep moving.'

The description turns out to be fairly apt. When they get back to the hotel, they find Dawes and Ricciardi waiting outside by the van. 'Something wrong?' Micheko calls, as they cross the street toward their fellow agents.

'Tried your mobile,' Dawes tells them. 'Fucking signals aren't working here. He's ill.'

'Ill?' Toru picks up his pace and jumps the kerb. 'What happened? He just had a headache.'

'I checked on 'im and he said his range was blowing up. Wouldn't let me near.' Dawes walks him in the lobby, but Ricciardi is holding Micheko back. 'Whatever was happening yesterday isn't happening now, is it.'

'Doesn't look like it.' Toru rips open the box of pills as they hurry, punching tabs and shaking two into his palm.

'Craft.' Dawes touches his arm. 'I get that there's secrets happening on all sides here, but we can't help if we don't know what's going on.'

'All I know is he'll need space. Sorry.' Toru doesn't wait on a response and he doesn't waste time wondering if Dawes is sincerely in the dark about any of it. He slaps Winner's card into the reader, sets a shoulder to the door, and forces his way in the second it unlocks.

Winner's at least easy to locate. Toru follows the sound of retching in the ensuite. He hits the faucet in the sink with his elbow, doesn't even bother removing the plastic on the guest cup provided on the little tray of amenities. He just dunks it, fills it, and hauls Winner up from the floor by the collar. 'Swallow,' he instructs.

Winner obeys, technically. Toru doesn't give him much choice. The pills go down, and stay down, though Winner gags. Toru wets a flannel and wipes Winner's face down, flushes the toilet. He feels Winner's forehead for fever. He's warm.

'How'd you go downhill so fast?' He unbuttons Winner's shirt, pulls it off him. Starts the shower running in the cubicle. 'Get in. Cool down.'

'Iva.' Winner stumbles, and Toru bodily manhandles him under the spray, pulling his trousers off both legs at once, wrenhing them off at the ankles. 'She...'

'Hold the thought until you can say it without puking.' Winner looks shaky on his feet, so Toru holds him up, slowly soaking his own coat and shirt. 'This is more than just coming off that stuff Sally gave you. You weren't this bad in London.'

Winner tugs the showerhead to aim directly at his face. 'The woman,' he croaks, swallowing shower water and spitting it to the drain. 'The Newtype.'

'What about her?'

Winner shakes his head. Then holds his head, as if that hurt. His breathing is ragged. This is worse even than the other day in Brussels-- more like the time in Brussels when Sally tried to test his limits around people.

It's an impulse. It's not even a fully formed idea. Micheko may be way more right about him than she knows. But if he can talk to her, and she's not a Newtype, and he can do whatever it was they did the night they tried to reach the exiles on Mars, maybe he can do this.

He takes Winner's hand, like Sun does. Whatever she does to make him feel better. Like pushing out a thought, he just-- pushes out calm. Calm. He closes his eyes, the way he does when he's meditating, he slakes all the frantic worry, he breathes in deep, but instead of centring it all inside himself, he pushes it out at Winner.

When he opens his eyes, long minutes later, Winner's are closed. The water is still pounding down on him, but he's still, his face slack.

Toru starts to speak, clears his throat. 'Come out,' he says. He gets a towel from the pile over the commode, drapes it one-handed over Winner's shoulder. He's not sure if he can let go Winner's hand. If it's safe. He uses his free hand to turn off the water, make sure Winner makes it over the lip of the cubicle without tripping. He nudges the mat underfoot so Winner can drip on it.

Winner's the one who makes the decision. He lets go. Pulls the towel tight about himself, and sits on the commode. He rubs his face. His eyes.

'You okay?' Toru asks, unsure of him.

Winner bobs his head in a little nod. 'Did you know how to do that?'

'No.' Toru gets another towel for himself, mops at his sleeves. 'Did it work?'

'You frighten me,' Winner says. 'You frighten me for you. I think... what you can do. What you might be capable of.'

'I didn't--' Toru swallows on a dry throat. 'Don't say that. I didn't do anything special.'

'Whose ability was that. Just now.' Winner finally opens his eyes, cracking them as if the light hurts. He stares at the tile, rubbing the towel over his hands. 'Sun's. Mine.'

'Yours?'

'How did you know you could do it?'

Toru drops the towel on the foor. 'Get dressed,' he says briefly. 'I'll let everyone know you're not dying. Then you can tell us all what the hell was happening in the first place.'

The other Preventers are still outside when he goes looking. Micheko reacts to his wet clothes with a bitten lip, stopping herself from asking anything. Dawes, sensitive enough to Winner after all these adventures, merely goes gravely silent, ignoring his partner's mutters in his ear. Ricciardi is the one who says what they're all thinking.

'Is it over?' Ricciardi challenges him.

'Yeah.' Toru feels a breath of air on his face and reaches up to wipe it away, discovering droplets on his cheek and hair. He pulls the elastic out of his ponytail and squeezes water from his hair. 'Give him a minute.'

'Look, if it's going to be like this every time, we're not going to get very far. Can he locate the Newtypes or not?' Ricciardi waits impatiently for an answer, turns to the others. 'Like I said. We should train the other one.'

'Sun?' Toru wraps his hair again. It's as well there's no actual breeze on the colonies, but he's starting to feel a chill anyway. He struggles to stick his hands into his pockets. One's too wet to easily admit his hand. The other feels damp in one spot, warm and dry in the rest. 'She doesn't have his ability to distinguish who—' The thought derails. Sun's not actually a Newtype. She doesn't even have the Flash.

'So this is pointless?'

'It's not pointless. He'll be okay.' Toru finds his wallet and removes his own roomkey. 'I'm going to change. Just-- give him a minute. Dawes, could you get him a tea from the lobby?'

'Ta.' Dawes moves immediately, heading in. Micheko hesitates, and that makes Dawes stop, too. 'It's... it's safe? He won't-- react to us? We weren't sure if we ought to clear the building.'

'It's safe. Just the tea, okay.'

Toru changes into his spare suit in the dark, brushes his hair without turning on the light in the bath. And then he just stands there, hands planted to either side of the sink, forcing himself to think about it.

If maybe all along he's been something more than what he thought. Or what he feared he was. Not just Toru Craft. Someone with a mind and impluses and ideas that come from his genes, not his own choices and experiences and-- self.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know how he'd know. Proving a negative. He's a Newtyke. Not a Newtype, someone who was born one thing and developed into another, programmed to be a new way. If he can do what Winner can do, imagine possibilities... if he's been doing that all along...

He straightens up. He looks at his reflection in the mirror. He can really only see his dim outline, a little shadow of his eyes, his hair catching the light from under the main door. He wishes Sun were here. She might actually know the answer to this one, having been around Newtypes all her life. But she's as much as admitted that she's never tried to develop her own ability. No labels for what they can do, she'd said. Never trying to understand it. Never planning on leaving Koh-i-Noor, that whole group of them, so there'd never be a reason to wonder. And maybe too much isolation to care one way or another if it could-- spread.

Well. Toru doesn't have that luxury. And, at the end of the day, he's not the kind of person who can live with a mystery.

He closes his eyes. Slows his breathing, his heartbeat. Tries to remember how it felt, when Rzhevsky, Khosa, Winner did it. Projecting their minds to find Newtypes.

He almost jumps out of his skin when someone knocks on the suite door.

He shakes numb hands, trying to get feeling back into them. 'Coming,' he calls. He grabs a light, blinking at the sudden blindness. He shoves his wet clothes into a pile. He shakes his hands again, fists them and releases them, and opens the door.

Winner is standing on the other side.

Toru opens his mouth, and closes it. _I was just trying._

'You don't have to.'

'Quatre—' Suddenly frustrated, unable to speak around it, he can barely even shake his head. 'Someone has to.'

'I will.' Winner takes Toru by the wrists. 'I will. Not you. Do you hear me?'

'What if I can?'

'But you don't have to.' Winner's hands are cold, squeezing him tightly. 'No more experiments. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said. You're a fine young man and you shouldn't listen to a crazy--'

There's no-one visible in the hall. They might be there, the others, listening from around the corner. He doesn't know. Winner would, must, he hopes Winner would be aware of how this would sound if anyone overheard, but for the moment he just-- wants--

'You will have a normal life,' Winner tells him, promises him. 'Everything you want. You won't be like me.'

'I didn't say that. I didn't even think it.' Much. Not on purpose. Maybe, just a pinprick of doubt. He feels guilty, shaking his head in miserable denial.

'Forgive me.' Winner mirrors him, helpless. 'I will be stronger. I will be strong enough. I'll find her. And the others as well. Then you'll have all the answers you want.'

'Don't worry so much about me.' Toru shifts on his feet, and Winner lets go, pulling in on himself, slumped shoulders, drawn face turned away. 'I know that... I know that you give me all the answers you have. I know you're trying.'

'But it's not enough.' Winner steps away. 'The Newtype. Iva. I touched her mind, earlier. That's what went wrong.'

Toru doesn't know what to make of that change in subject. 'Okay,' he says. 'Um. So she's, I guess. Is it like Sylvia Noventa's shield? Like a defence mechanism?'

'I think it's a simpler explanation. As Rzhevsky said. Newtypes go mad. Whether from their ability or from what the programme put us through, it's a moot point.' Winner finds his dark glasses in his coat and slips them on. Wraps his scarf a little tighter about his neck. 'I think she's disordered. Delusional. When I tried to read her, it caught me up.'

'Okay.' Abruptly Toru catches on. 'You think she might have received treatment.'

'Some of Rzhevsky's victims had police run-ins. They'd had sporadic treatment from shelters, clinics. Mentally ill people get noticed. I found that myself in India. If Iva has been on colony long enough to make it into the system, there will be records.'

'That's good.' He makes an effort to touch Winner, brushing awkwardly against his shoulder. 'India... must have been hard. We never talked about that part of it.'

'You already know what it looks like.' Winner ducks his head as he steps back again. 'The important thing is that-- that-- you know it's not what's waiting for you.'

At the moment he's not sure of anything. But he makes himself nod. Winner needs it. He doesn't let himself think anything, not anything at all.

'Freddie has tea for everyone,' Winner says. 'When you're ready.'

'I'm ready.' He checks for his wallet and his keys, and lets the door shut behind him. 'Who's Freddie?'

'Agent Dawes.' Winner offers a tentative smile at that. 'Considering he knows your name now, don't suppose you ought to return the favour?'

'I don't get you even a little, sometimes,' Toru jokes.

Or not. Because, in that moment, he sort of means it. Not about the names. Winner's smile, never very secure, drops away. Sorry for it, Toru bites the insides of his cheeks, holds his breath, counts to ten. None of it works very well.

'Yeah,' he says. 'Tea.'


	26. Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Gunshots. There's gunfire being exchanged, somewhere nearby. The fingers shaking him have blood on them._

Toru caps his bottle. The water on L1 tastes just a little weird, and he can't figure out what it is, but it's not palatable.

'Recycling,' Winner murmurs. 'Old system.'

'Oh.' He flips rapidly through files in his reader, chasing down a memory. 'You keep calling her Iva. We didn't have anyone named Iva on Rzhevsky's kill list.'

'No. Maybe she didn't go by that name.'

'That's what I'm getting at. I think.' Toru drags his fingers down the touchscreen, chewing his lip. 'Commander and I talked about this once. We were talking about Sun, but it could have applied to Ishaq or probably a dozen others. You all don't generally change your names. Newtypes. You're proud of who you are.'

Winner removes his dark glasses. He looks like a battered man, after only a few hours without Sally's medication. He leans his head on the wall for support, and his skin is grey-tinged like the concrete behind him. Even his eyes look colourless. 'I'm not sure that's how I'd put it. And Ishaq did change his name.'

'Only when it would have threatened his family. He was protecting someone else, not himself. If it was really about hiding, he wouldn't have joined Preventers. Or lived out in the open in Montreal. The way you lived out in the open in St John's.'

'St John's has barely a thousand people, and half of them are seasonal.'

'I know you hate philosophy, but try to think philosophically for a second. There's something to this. I know there is.'

Winner surrenders. Is maybe too tired not to. His eyes dip closed. 'All right,' he says quietly. 'How does this apply to Iva.'

'Back in Brussels you said she had family here. She was just checking to be sure they were all right, but she wasn't trying to talk to them. If she changed her name, it's for a good reason. Like protecting them. Because they're near enough to recognise her.' Frustrated when Winner only shrugs, Toru adds, 'Do you know how many homeless women get treatment for mental problems? Even in a limited population like a colony it's a big number. We can take a week tracking down every result and still maybe not find a woman in her thirties with long hair-- which, by the way, is not exactly a great description on your end--'

'Or pursue the family. I follow the logic.' Winner rolls his head along the wall. 'Micheko and the others are coming back.'

'I'm guessing not with a triumph under their belt that renders my argument moot.'

'You guess correctly.' Winner sighs. 'You were put out with me for going to the Fishers.'

Toru blinks at that. 'That was different.'

'It won't be. We could hop a shuttle to L4 and visit my family and it wouldn't be any different. That's why we don't change our names, Toru. It's all we have left of them.'

Toru scratches his neck above his collar. He doesn't know what to say to that.

In the end, he doesn't have to say anything. His fellow Preventers are back from the carpark, the luggage from the hotel stashed away and the van now idling on the street, Ricciardi at the wheel. 'We all ready?' Micheko asks, leaning down solicitously to help Winner to his feet. 'Or are we going to hide in the alley for a while longer?'

'New strategy,' Toru says, clambering to stand. He slings his duffel over his shoulder and tucks the reader into it. 'Looking for the Newtype has some pitfalls. We should focus on identifying her and going to her family. I think she'll notice a group of Preventers approaching them, if we make a show of it. We could draw her out.'

'Interesting,' Dawes muses. He offers his pack of chewing gum to Winner. Winner hesitates only a moment before murmuring his thanks and selecting a piece. 'We're not any closer to identifying her, though.'

'We are if we think about it the right way. We've got Rzhevsky's kill list-- the Newtypes he never got to. And we've got the Newtype profile. We may not have found recent treatment records, but Newtypes are supposed to be in and out of social services as teenagers. We can run an algorithm search on name variations against L1's hospitals, police records, child welfare--'

'Adoption services,' Micheko suggests. 'Those records will be sealed, though.'

'In fact, we could get a jump and start doing this for every name on the list. That would minimise your personal exposure to-- difficulty,' he tells Winner, who nods uncomfortably. 'We may still end out driving around waiting for the Flash, but at least we'll know exactly who we're trying to find.'

'It'll go faster if we split up.' Dawes pulls old-fashioned paper from his jacket pocket, a pad with a stub of a pencil. 'We'll need an order to open any sealed records. I'll get on that. You're the wizard on the systems, Craft, you ought to handle setting up the search protocol. Walker, it's still worth visiting the rest of the shelters, see if anyone's seen our Newtype recently.'

'I'd like to go with you,' Winner says. 'In case she's on the move. I'd sense her nearby.'

'Ricciardi can drive us,' Micheko nods. 'We should have at least two agents in case we do encounter the Newtype.'

That more or less confirms what Toru was wondering. One of them has the serum for the Newtype, in case she doesn't come voluntarily. There's no real reason, otherwise, to put Ricciardi in line with Winner. He's the least experienced with Newtypes. Unless Micheko thinks all he's good for is driving.

Winner doesn't let anything through on his expression. He puts on his dark glasses. 'Then let's get moving,' he agrees.

The van lets them out at that grocery market car lot, and leaves with Winner inside it. Dawes is already on his phone, or is trying to be-- they really are having a signals issue. They'll have to deal with that, next time. There's a hub in the cafeteria, at least. Toru hooks his reader up, and Dawes his phone, and they get to work.

He swims up from the programme he's building when Dawes rises to go buy food. He checks his watch. It's just a bit after noon. He checks his phone, but he isn't receiving messages. Dawes might be. He asks, when Dawes returns with bottles of juice for both of them, and wrapped sandwiches.

'Nothing yet,' Dawes confirms. 'Don't want to miss the action? You can't expect to single-handedly nab all the Newtypes.'

'I don't expect that.'

'No?' Dawes shucks the wax paper on his sandwich and plucks the onion slices with a moue of distaste. 'You've had an action-heavy year. Won't always be like this. Well, it may be like this for a bit, whilst we round them up. But we're past the days when Preventers fired their guns for a living.'

'Quatre would say that's the point,' Toru mutters, trying to at least pretend he can work through the chatter. He can't. He has to erase two lines of code that are pure nonsense.

'No doubt.' Dawes sips his juice. 'Reckon your folks would've agreed with that?'

'My fol--' He runs out of word in the middle of saying it. His tongue just stops.

'Knew your mum, a bit,' Dawes says then. 'To nod to, so to speak. She were original Corps. They were a bit heroic, you know. Flash.'

Toru carefully sets his reader flat on their table. 'Um,' he starts, and then is annoyed at himself. 'I didn't-- know that you came on that early. To the Corps.'

'On probation, like you. One of earliest to do that, actually.' Dawes pauses to read a message on his phone, but sets it aside without answering it. 'Nineteen and green enough to bleed sap. They were trying to keep out the youngest, for a while. Because of the Gundam Pilots. Ensuring agents would be mature enough for the field. Chang Wufei filed a complaint on behalf of three applicants turned away because of age. They lowered it to seventeen the year after I entered. After Third Circle got hold of those AI processors and seized MO-IV.'

'Oh.' Toru chews the inside of his cheek. 'I thought they retired pretty, uh, pretty early.'

'Yeah, not long after I started. Never saw your dad. He was a legend with the pilots, though. Things used to be different, I don't know if you can even imagine. We didn't have a Headquarters or Field Offices, you know, we just had two floors of cubicles and a warehouse, not even a proper hangar for the mobile suits. We were making it up as we went along and none of it got writ down til years later. It was an exciting time.' Dawes plays with his sandwich, pulling out limp lettuce and dropping it to his napkin. His thick brows are pulled together over a dim frown. 'The Haddad Rebellion was what changed it all. Regularised us. Had to. We were a family, til the Rebellion. We had brother against brother on the battlefield then, people you admired, looked up to. It tore Preventers apart.'

They teach three entire weeks on the Rebellion at the Academy. Half of Toru's instructors said the same, with that same downcast look. Toru understands it more now than he did then, maybe; it's memories, sadness, more than anger-- hurt, more than betrayal. Loss of that heady good feeling of building something, having been part of tearing it down. At the time, Toru had only been concerned that his instructors might recognise his father's famous visage in Toru's young face, and hold it against him. Now, he wonders how no-one noticed, because it seems like everyone is always looking backwards.

'It tore a lot of things apart,' he settles for saying. 'I don't remember them much.'

'They weren't bad people.' Dawes screws his mouth to the side, and drops his sandwich with a sigh. 'Just passionate about something they couldn't change.'

Toru curls his hands into fists, but releases them before he can fully clench. He doesn't know what he feels, exactly, but not that. 'I guess they thought it was important to try anyway.'

'Is that what we're doing here with Winner? Trying anyway?'

'I don't know,' Toru answers honestly. 'I think-- maybe. But I also think there's no saying for sure. Nothing's inevitable.'

'You'll spend a lot of your life tilting at windmills with that attitude, Craft.'

He'd said the same thing to Winner, just last night. Maybe it's good advice. Now he gets why it irritated Winner, though.

Another message comes in on Dawes' phone, arriving with a beep. 'Found a friendly clerk to process our order,' Dawes reports, reading it. 'We'll have access to any sealed records we need here for twenty-four hours. Best get your search going.'

'Right.' Toru picks up his reader. 'I'm almost done.'

Two hours later Toru's custom-built code has burnt through L1's network and returned with a cache of names. He and Dawes split the results and compare them to the Newtype profile.

'I've got three strong possibilities,' Toru reports, rubbing eyes tired of staring at a small screen. 'Andrijanna Čerkes, thirty-six, mother Davorka Lučić appears to still be on the colony. Father disappeared during the war, possibly Resistance, possibly executed by Order of the Zodiac, and Andrijanna was in and out of foster care while the mother got treatment for drug addiction. Andrijanna ditches the system when she's sixteen and stays off the grid for years, but there's no death certificate, and nothing on Immigration. She stands out because she put in a Right-To-Know Request for her father's records right before she disappeared.'

'Interested in the issues,' Dawes nods. 'Who else?'

'Freja Larsen, parents unknown. Unclaimed baby girl registered at the hospital on Satellite B-29019 twenty-six years ago. Younger than Quatre said, but he was fuzzy on her actual age. Besides, if she is schizophrenic or delusional, she may not know her own age. Arrested a half-dozen times for agitation and disturbing the peace, held for a year at the longest on a conviction of threatening an official. Associated with CyberPunks, and one of her arrests was at a separatist movement rally.' Toru shares her picture. Blonde long hair, blues eyes-- sullen blue eyes, glaring at the arresting officer snapping her photograph. 'The last one I think might be a “yes” is Golden Aliyeva.'

'Unusual name.'

'Thirty-one years old. Great student, scholarship lined up, then one day has a well-documented fugue, loses an entire week, shows up to class fragged out of her mind and raving about having been on Earth the entire time, on a ship in the ocean, observing what turned out to be a top secret manoeuvre being conducted by the Acquatic Defence Unit of the Esun Navy. Her family confined her to the psychiatric ward against her will. Her boyfriend broke her out. Dressed up as a nurse and slipped her out. No contact with her family since then.'

'She sounds like the one. The family's still here?'

'Dad's gone. Remarried and moved to Earth. Mom's on the colony, and a younger sister. The sister has kids. Twins, age five.'

'I've got two I think fit.' Dawes shows him his pictures, two haunted-looking women. Toru screws his mouth to the side. 'Ciren _iva_ \-- hear that-- Ávalos and Makayla Szabados. Szabados has a grandmother named Iva.'

'I don't know about focussing too much on the significance of the name.'

'I don't know about discounting it, either. Winner said it's significant.'

'That's not exactly what he said.' Toru scrolls quickly through their records. The same run of hits with police and social services. 'Well,' he says. 'We've got enough to get started. Want to call in the others?'

'I'll message Ricciardi. We can start without them. They'll catch us up when they've finished. Let's not leave any task half-finished.' Dawes gathers their garbage and bins it. 'Once we figure out if any of these families can lead us to the Newtype, then we'll need Winner. Let's not wear him out running him back and forth over the colony til then.'

 

**

 

Winner might have said it would be like the interview with the Fishers, but it isn't. It's terrifically worse.

Toru has no real experience with civilian interviews. Everyone who attends the Academy gets the standard training, but the difference between classroom and reality is apparent the minute he opens his mouth.

Davorka Lučić is middle aged, weary-eyed, and very angry. Preventers knocking at her workplace isn't a sign that the recovery of a lost daughter might be imminent, it's just another annoyance in a life that looks like a long series of difficulties. The Fishers had been nothing but grief for their lost daughter; Davorka Lučić has long passed that point.

They get farther with Golden Aliyeva's family. Like Georgie Fisher, she's beloved even in her absence. Her adoptive parents still keep pictures of their absent daughter, prominently featured on the wall, atop the little upright piano. They speak of childhood memories, of a reserved and withdrawn child who never quite fit in the home they made ready for her. Wherever Golden is, though, Toru doesn't think it's here. There's a deep lament and sadness there, but not understanding. When Toru says 'Newtype', he gets a scowl from the father, a blank look from the mother.

By evening they're hitting a wall with Dawes' first pick, Cireniva Ávalos. She's an even better fit on the Newtype profile than Golden was. Only her father's still alive, and Toru and Dawes track him to prison. Absentee or abusive parents are prominent on the profile, and Ávalos more than fits that bill. When he's brought into the interview room, Toru finds himself staring at the man's knuckles. Many years broken, callused, scarred from repeated hits. The hands of boxer, Toru might have thought, but there's nothing in his history about a ring.

'My daughter?' Ávalos repeats when they ask, saying it like the words have too much rust to make it past his lips. 'What about her?'

'Did you know she was a Newtype?' Toru says. 'That she was affiliated with the Century Discover Corporation?'

'Knew she had some fancy job.' Dawes supplies a pack of cigarettes, and Ávalos grabs them quickly, shaking out a stick and shivering at the scent of it. Dawes lights it for him, gives him the lighter. Ávalos considers them behind a stream of smoke. 'She sent me money for a while. Cut me off about a year later. Ungrateful bitch.'

'I can't imagine why she'd want to cease contact with you.' Toru screws his mouth to the side, bites the inside of his cheek. 'You haven't heard from her since then? How long ago was that?'

'Dunno. Seven years. Eight.'

Dawes nudges Toru's shoe. Toru screws his mouth to the side. He knows he's supposed to ask the probing questions, his supposed talent for getting to the heart of things with civvies who don't know better, but he's coming up dry. He has absolutely no desire to continue this interview. Or even to go on to the next ones.

Dawes nudges him again, eyebrows raised, head nodding toward Ávalos. Toru scratches an itch on the back of his neck.

'Right,' Dawes says. He checks his case reader. 'She was, um. Your daughter was a secretary for the CFO of the Century Discovery Corporation?'

'I guess. She moved to L3. Didn't tell me much about it. Didn't ask.'

'But she confirmed to you she was a Newtype.'

Ávalos taps ash onto the table. 'New type of what?'

Toru scratches his ear. 'You beat her,' he says.

'I run a tight house. My pops had a heavy hand. It's tradition.'

'Successful, too. You're in prison and she's missing. High score.'

Ávalos puts the fag back to his lips. No reaction. Not even irritation. It feels off. Toru rubs at the back of his neck. He feels itchy all over.

Dawes angles the pad at him. _Craft_ , he writes, block letters, and underlines it twice for emphasis. Toru shrugs awkwardly.

Craft.

'I heard you, I don't know what you want me to say.'

Dawes turns his head. 'What?' he asks. Toru blinks. The pad in front of Dawes is back in its upright position, corner unmarked. Toru frowns, inhales to speak, and hesitates.

'Um,' he says, and coughs. 'Mr-- Ávalos. Your daughter. Did she show any special abilities as a child? Ability to, um. Like-- read minds, or-- things like that.'

Ávalos shrugs. 'She was weird. Read a lot of books. Off in her room a lot. Who knows what kids do alone.'

_Toru, damn it all!_

He stands. 'Excuse me.' He heads for the door with Dawes turning after him, knocks to be let out to the hall. The maglock releases and he steps outside. He takes the precaution of removing his phone from his pocket, putting it to his ear without turning it on, a minimal disguise for something he suspects is incipient insanity. 'Uh-- hello?'

_Toru, I need you. Please, Toru, you can do this._

'I-- Quatre?' He flips to face the wall. 'How are you doing this? You can't speak to me this way.'

_Wake up. WAKE UP._

'I am a--'

And he stops. Because he knows, in that moment, that whatever's wrong with this, it's with him.

The itch in his head reaches a maddening pitch. He leans his head on the wall, presses his forehead to cool plaster. No-- concrete. Where--? He opens his eyes and sees the plain corridor of the corrections facility, closes them and sees-- a dank cellar, a drip of mould on the stained ceiling overhead, and _crack! crack! from overhead--_

_Toru!_

'Dawes.' Toru runs back to interview room, pounding impatiently at the door til it's released. He throws it open. 'Dawes! Something's wrong. We need to find the others.'

Dawes half-rises. 'You got a message? I haven't got a lick of reception.'

'I—' Caught, he chews on his lip. There's no lie to tell that can't be easily found out, a text would leave a digital trail, a call would be logged, even claiming it went to the front desk here would be verifiable. 'Quatre,' he says bluntly. 'Quatre just-- he told me. It's a Newtype thing, or, it, yeah. Look, we can figure the how later. We need to find them.'

'A Newtype thing?' Dawes' face goes blank, a poker face that makes Toru shift nervously. Then, with a shrug, Dawes acquiesces. 'I'd have taken a lie, you know,' he says bluntly. 'The only secret around here is how many secrets you're keeping. But if you say we go, we go, I reckon.' He jerks his thumb at Ávalos. 'We done with this one then?'

'Yeah. Sorry.' Toru digs his fingernails into the unrelenting tingle under his skin. 'I, um.'

'It's all right, Toru.'

The itch is turning into a literal buzz in his ears. Toru covers his ears with his palms, holds his breath. 'It's, yeah. We need to--' The room is greying out, and for a second he wonders wildly if he's going to faint, but he's not dizzy. He's going nuts. 'You-- are--'

'Toru?'

Dawes wavers in front of his eyes. 'You don't call me Toru,' Toru says. 'You've never.'

'You've just told me you're a Newtyke. Only I'd imagine that's a bit of an invitation beyond casual acquaintanceship, Toru. Toru.'

Dawes doesn't call him Toru and damn sure doesn't stutter. Toru swallows, dry to the bone, shakes on the inhale.

_Crack!_

'Toru.' The world shakes on its axis. He's laid out on the floor, chilly concrete floor, and the croak of his name comes from just beyond the hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Toru turns bleary eyes on it, a white blur of shirtcuff, everything beyond it vanished into the dim, the cufflinks... the cufflinks are golden Ms.

Not Ms. Ws. Winner. Quatre Winner.

_Crack crack! Crack!_

Gunshots. There's gunfire being exchanged, somewhere nearby. The fingers shaking him have blood on them.

Toru heaves a gasp, hard breaths, to flush himself with oxygen. It works, waking him out of the strange confusion, the-- dream?-- no time to wonder. His arm feels numb when he tries to move it, flopping it out, but his fingers work, and he drags himself across the cold ground. Damp. He's-- it is a cellar, a cellar with odd sloped ceilings and a stairwell leading toward a bright light that hurts to look at, and the gunfire is coming from up that way. 'Quatre,' he whispers. 'Quatre, how?'

'He's hit.' Quatre's hard grip keeps him flat, and Toru finally thinks to protect his head, rubbing at his tearing eyes as he crawls to him. Them. Quatre is spread flat over another body, using his own limbs to shelter the man beneath him. Ricciardi. Toru reaches past Quatre's shoulder to feel at Ricciardi's pale neck. He doesn't find the pulse at first, and feels fear. When it throbs faintly against his finger he shudders in relief.

'Who's firing?' Toru demands, the most important thing he can think of at this point. There will be time to figure out-- how-- why, later. He flips to his back to free his gun from its holster, checking the clip.

'Walker and Dawes. Maybe the Newtype.'

'What? Maybe?'

'I don't know what they're seeing. They're like you were, lost in it.'

A sound like lightning striking the sand, and a shower of pulverised brick raining on them. The bullets aren't far enough away to be safe. He guesses how Ricciardi was shot, and only hopes it wasn't really friendly fire. 'How are you not?' he asks only, rolling back to his belly and wiping his eyes one more time. He thinks he has the lay of the cellar, but it's that stairwell he needs. It's not that many steps, only five or six. They're not safe in here.

A hand touches his, sticky with Ricciardi's blood. Toru spares a single glance down when he feels a piece of plastic pressed into his palm.

A syringe. The serum Preventers sent to pacify the Newtype. He looks at Quatre's face, registering, at last, that the clammy skin and taut pained grimmace is directly related to the twin syringe abandoned on the ground, its cap broken, its barrel emptied.

Another bullet hits the door frame at the head of the stairwell, blowing out a chunk of wood. Toru breaks the cap on the fresh syringe and sticks it between his teeth. 'It works?' he confirms around it.

'It works. Be careful. I don't know--' Toru sheds his jacket and crawls on his hands and knees toward the steps. 'You're a Newtyke,' Quatre whispers. 'I don't think she's affecting you the same way as the rest of us. Be wary. And--'

'Don't kill her. I'll try.'

'Toru. If it's her or you, you.'

Toru pauses with his head just below the top step. 'Roger that.' He grabs his shoe on his right side and holds it up by the ankle. When it's not shot out of his hand, he tosses it ahead of him. It lands without getting blown out of whatever the next room is, so Toru risks it, and goes over the edge himself.

Kitchen. Sort of. Ratty vinyl tile, grime under his elbows. There's one overhead light, the only source of light, still hurting his eyes, but not so bright now that he's aware of himself and taking in his surroundings. There's blood on the tile, in a slick toward the steps where Toru flattens himself. Ricciardi's, maybe.

_Crack._ He doesn't know how many shots that makes, but if there's only two with guns, they've got to be nearing the end of their ammo. Unless they were packing extra clips, and have the capacity to rack a new round. If the Newype--

A screech, human, follows the next shot. Toru makes a break from the steps and scrambles bent low across the kitchen, into the shelter of the far door. He takes in a sweeping glance of the den on the other side, a crumbling couch, feathers scattered on the mangy rug where a pillow was shot to shreds. And Dawes, slumped behind the felt rocker, mumbling to himself. Toru makes it to his side, but doesn't waste time on him. Whatever's going on, he's not in a position to help matters. Toru relieves him of his gun, checks the clip, and pats him down quickly for injury. He moves on without a backward glance.

There are stairs, a proper stairwell, behind a half-wall. Toru climbs cautiously, noting two new bullet holes at torso-height. There's a run shaking the floor above his head, stomping feet that traverse diagonally above and stop. He waits it out, then resumes his climb, taking care to stay on the edge of the steps, not the centre which might creak with his weight, easing up one by one and stopping eighteen steps up, wishing for the first time he could sense a Newtype the way Quatre can.

He takes the corner in a crouch. And immediately abandons his caution. Micheko is sprawled on the floor. There's blood at her temple. For a dreadful moment he fears the worst. But when he touches her, she's warm still, and breathing, and when he brushes the blood away he finds it's just a scratch. A stray bullet? Maybe. The window above is shattered. If there's anyone nearby-- wherever it is they are-- surely someone's summoned the police by now. On a colony this regulated, shots won't go uninvestigated.

'Cheko.' He shakes her, as Quatre was shaking him, and only then realises her eyes are open, slitted and glazed. She's like Dawes. Awake, but not aware. Whatever this is, he and Quatre are the only ones free of it. And that leaves only one way to end it.

He kicks open the nearest door. A bath, and empty. He takes the next with his shoulder and sweeps with his gun. A bedroom. 'Come out,' he calls sharply. 'I'm a Preventer agent. You need to surrender your weapon and stop using your ability to confuse them. We can do this calmly or we can do it hard, but we're doing it, Iva.'

Nothing under the bed. The closet is stacked with boxes and is too shallow to hide a whole body behind them. There are papers on the desk, printed photographs--

'How do you know my name?'

He's levelled the gun at her head before he fully sees her there. She's insubstantial as a ghost, a whisp of a woman with straggling blonde hair, wide eyes not fully sane. She has a gun, too, one in each hand. The one in the right is Micheko's.

'The Newtype downstairs,' Toru says, keeping his sights on her. 'He found you.'

'I felt him. I felt him coming. Why-- why.' Her thin chest heaves. 'Why can't you leave me alone.'

'We're not here to hurt you. Truly.' Toru edges round the room, searching from the corners of his eyes for anything that would block a bullet. The doors are too thin, the bed has a lattice frame of what looks like cheap aluminium. If he throws it at her, maybe. 'The Newtype. His name is Quatre Winner. Do you know of him? He's here to help you. He's looking for all the remaining Newtypes.'

'They all come looking.' She's not so far gone she doesn't catch what he's up to. Both guns follow him, one at his head, one at his chest, and by the way she holds them he know she's competent. It gives him hope, of a kind, though-- if she wanted them all dead she could have done it, and no-one out there has an injury that's life-threatening. Whatever's happened here, she's only trying to drive them away.

He's so busy strategising and watching and creeping toward her that he only belatedly realises what she's said. 'Ivan Rzhevsky,' he guesses.

'Who?'

'A Newtype. So he found you? He was here?' The chair from the desk looks light enough to hurl. He slides his heel to hook round the leg. 'He was a murderer. He was searching out Newtypes to kill them. Quatre just wants to save them. All of you who are left. There's not many, now.'

'Stop talking!' She's shuddering all over, he sees. The tremble in her hands is enough to rattle her weapons, though her aim stays true. 'Just shut up.'

'Is it your ability?' He almost has it. He doesn't dare look down to be sure, but he can feel the chair, tries not to scrape it along the floorboards. 'There's five of us here. Trying to use your ability on all of us simultaneously must be a huge strain. You don't have to do that. You can let it go.'

'Shut up!' She wipes the back of her hand across her sweating forehead, and in that moment of her wavering Toru kicks the chair at her. It skids across the floor and makes her jump, rather than actually connecting, but he takes the opportunity and lunges at her. They hit the wall and fall through the open door into the hall. A gun goes off by his ear, deafening him, rattling him. They grapple with each other, Toru using his greater weight to hold her down, but he doesn't want to hurt her and she's ready to kill him. She scratches his face with dirty nails, her screams coming to him as if from far away with the bells from the gunshot still ringing in his damaged ears. They roll about the hall-- the hall of the prison, Dawes is talking to him-- no. No, that's not right, she's trying to sweep him under her spell again, and he chants it to himself, I'm here, I'm here, _I'm here_ and slams her hand against the floorboards, one gun dropped from her spasming grip, hits her across the face with his elbow. And then she knees him in the crotch, and his gut drops out with a sick lurch, pain exploding upward. He can't stop his fall as she shoves him off her, trying not to curl about the hurt, trying to get his gun up, but she's faster, the remaining pistol is swinging round, accurate to the last. He throws up a hand, pure stupid instinct to protect himself, already cringing at immanent death.

_Crack._

Toru opens his eyes. He watches her fall. Quatre is behind her, with Micheko's gun.

He forces himself to swallow. His mouth is too dry for speech. He pushes himself up on his elbows, still sore from the twinge in his groin. He hunches upright, and shuffles on his knees toward Iva. She's breathing. Alive. Her soft weeping is more wheeze than frenzy, surrender in every line of her wretched body.

'The syringe,' Toru says, and coughs on it. 'The syringe. I dropped it. I think by Micheko.'

'Not yet.' Quatre kneels beside him. He supports Toru with his own shoulder, but his free hand is reaching for Iva, gentle on her stringy hair. 'You can help her. As you helped me.'

'What?'

'Help her.' Quatre takes him by the hand. Places it where his own lays, her head, the back of her neck. 'You can do it. Spare her, please. Just bring her back to herself, and she'll let the others out of it.'

'Quatre—'

'Please. She's only frightened, Toru.' Quatre's fist in his shirt grips tightly. 'Please.'

He knows later he'll be explaining one more bad decision made for the wrong reasons. It would be tactical-- it would be safe-- to stick her with the syringe and just disable her outright. But Quatre's drawn face and pleading eyes boring into his are begging, and he doesn't resist. He owes that much.

He wasn't entirely sure how to do it only yesterday. If it really did happen yesterday, and not as part of the dream-world that included the visits to the potential Newtypes and the prison and-- and that's a rabbit hole for another time. He just thinks closely on how it felt to do it, real or not, the way he'd pushed out calm at Quatre in that moment of need, from himself into that swirl of madness. He bows his head over Iva's body, his hand in her hair. Calm. And not just calm. Forgiveness. She was only protecting herself. Frightened. Of course she would be. So he pushes that out at her too, understanding, and accepting, and-- hoping. All of Quatre's hope, that he can feel just radiating off the man, so he takes it from Quatre and gives that to her too. It will be all right. It will be all right because it has to be all right, because they will make it be all right.

'Toru?'

He inhales. Looks up. It's Micheko. She's shaken and white, white against the red stain of drying blood on her temple, matting her dark hair, but she's upright, alive. And whole. He smiles, and, tremulously, she returns it.

'She's asleep,' Quatre murmurs. While Toru was doing-- whatever it is that he was doing, Quatre had torn the sheet from the bed and made a bandage. The growing spot of red from Iva's shoulder stains the sheet, but when Toru takes over putting pressure on it, he can tell it's already slowing. 'Ricciardi,' Quatre says then. 'He took a hit to the gut. We need emergency services.'

'I'll call.' 

'Toru.' Quatre surprises him with a quick hard hug. 'You terrify me, you brave idiot.'

'What'd I do?' he protests, cheeks heating. 'Let's, um. We should, probably, get Ricciardi out of that cellar. I think. I think.'

Micheko offers him a hand up to his feet, and he uses the leverage to get himself vertical. She offers the same to Quatre, and slips herself under his arm, propping him upright when he sways. 'I'm alive,' Quatre forestalls them, though he's utterly drained of colour and it looks a near thing. 'Perhaps before we go much farther with this we ought to decide what to do with Iva?'

'Micheko, stay with her,' Toru decides, touching the scratch on her forehead. 'I'll do the heavy lifting below. Cuffs.' He passes his when she pats her belt uncertainly. 'Restrain her til the police come. I-- assume they're coming.'

'I don't know,' Quatre says, too weary to be helpless even. 'I can't-- I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.' Micheko crouches to place the restraints on Iva. 'But maybe you can explain? We were at Duchesne Medical and then I was-- here. What the hell happened?'

'You were never there,' Toru says. 'And I was never at the prison. How far back does it go, Quatre?'

'At least four hours.'

'Only four?' He checks his watch, then finds his phone and checks that too. He's lost an entire day. Or, rather, never had it. It's been only five hours since they came back from the pharmacy and found Quatre in the middle of a fit, from making mental contact with the Newtype.

Making mental contact with a Newtype who can somehow bend reality. Lord. No wonder Quatre had gone a little mad from it. Given his own ability, it must have felt like splintering into pieces.

He opens his mouth to ask a question, but never gets it out. Instead, he asks, 'Did you hear that?'

'There's someone else here.' Micheko grabs her gun away from Quatre and leads the way out the bedroom. Toru is right behind her. Nothing in the hall, but the light flickers once and goes out when Toru toggles the switch, leaving them nothing to see by. 'Listen for it,' Micheko instructs softly, a deadening motion of her hand.

'There.' Toru points upward. 'It's coming from the ceiling.'

'An attic,' Quatre says. 'There must be an access.'

'She was outside the bedroom, coming back. End of the hall?' Toru is the tallest, and reaches up to feel. He walks nearly to the far wall before he finds it, a groove in the panelling. He gives a silent countdown, and yanks. Micheko flicks on a tiny torch, beaming it up.

When no-one leaps out to attack them, Toru stretches his fingers around the edge of the hole. There, a rope. He pulls it down, and it proves to be a rope ladder. 'Here's hoping she hasn't got a buddy,' he whispers, and climbs it with his gun at the ready, leading with his weapon, Micheko moving to cover him at an angle. He tries his shoe trick again, hurling it into the darkness. He hears it land, and nothing blows it to smithereens. He eases his head up into the attic space.

'Oh, shit,' he says.

'What is it?' Micheko demands tensely.

'A baby. Shit.' Shit.

A baby who glows. A Newtyke.

 

**

 

It takes them very little time to piece together the timeline. It takes the rest of Ricciardi's surgery to figure out the how.

They'd been at the hotel. Quatre had had a headache, and Toru and Micheko had gone to the chemist for him. When they'd returned, he'd been having a fit. Toru had somehow calmed him. And that's the last thing any of them agree on.

Micheko thinks they got their clue then, that Quatre had read something off the Newtype, and they'd tracked her to a medical facility on the other side of the colony, where they'd been digging through undigitised paper records disarranged by the war years. Dawes, it turns out, was never with Toru at all, or at least not in his own mind. He'd been conducting interviews as well, but of the local police, tracking Newtype-like phenomena in local cases. 'It's a good idea, at least,' Dawes says glumly.

Toru's dream-reality is not the only one that involved some deeply personal confrontations. Though he's disappointed to find that his conversation with Dawes about his parents isn't real, he's wise enough not to bring it up. Quatre, on a ragged edge from a heavy dose of Preventers' Newtype-disabling serum, lays out his own humiliation in the flat tones of a man at the edge of his endurance.

'From the first moment it was beyond bearing.' Of all their minor hurts, Quatre is relatively unscathed, bruised but released with only a cursory check by staff who know nothing about Newtypes. Surrounded by people whose minds he can no longer hear, he doesn't look relieved. 'She creates illusion,' he tells them, staring at the television station playing the news and seeing none of it. 'Or at uses the mind's ability to imagine based on existing knowledge. Eventually all of you would have turned up empty in your searches and moved on. You would have compared notes and found it out, of course, but if she'd been able to deal with us singly, none of you would ever have known.'

'Ivan Rzhevsky probably didn't,' Toru says quietly. 'He could have walked right by her and not found her.'

'But what happened with us?' Dawes presses. 'How did we find her, then?'

'By dragging me the length of the colony and pointing me wherever it got worse.' Quatre blinks at the hot tea Micheko puts in his hand, and sips distractedly. 'I was raving. But I could still feel her. And the closer we got the more--' He breathes out hard. 'I don't know if I'll ever be able to-- so much as be in the same room as her. It was-- like drowning. Like Zero. Drowning, and I felt myself slipping away, and could do nothing.'

There's silence on that note. Micheko is studying her hands. Dawes is thoughtful, chewing his lip. Toru checks his watch again, still amazed. It had felt real, down to the very last detail. In a way, Quatre's ability has come seem almost commonplace. The inconvenience it causes him is troublesome, but it's not life-altering for the people around him. This, though. Pretty obvious defence implications. Applications. He can see how valuable she must have been to her cause.

And, of course, there's the baby.

The hospital puts the baby in care immediately, but there's nothing at all wrong with it. Her. A daughter. Toru is uncomfortably aware that he's the only one who can sense anything out of the norm about the infant, and there's no explaining that, not til he figures out what to do about it. If Iva comes with them, the baby will have to come. But no-one had planned on it, and there's always the question of... well, if Iva doesn't want to come with them. If she doesn't, who makes the choice?

And then he looks sideways at Winner-- Quatre. Quatre, already in mourning for something lost. One more thing lost. The first Newtype they manage to find, and he may never be able to connect with her. May never be able to use his ability around her. The entirety of what makes them the same will forever stop them from being the same together.

He reaches out, and puts his hand over Quatre's.

The doctors come with news about Iva first, to report that she's been administered sedation, non-Preventers-sedation, that is, and will sleep out the night. Nuts or otherwise, she's been living in some kind of deprivation, possibly since the birth of her baby, possibly well before that, and there are all the medical issues one would expect of someone who doesn't eat enough or regularly, who sleeps on the street, who avoids places full of people who might arrest her as soon as help her. Dawes signs off on reams of paperwork for her, officially beginning the process of bringing her under Preventers' aegis. She'll wake up a ward of the state.

It's another few hours before they hear about Ricciardi. The shot to his belly was a through-and-through, but he woke to a patched-up spleen, and took the news with a decided grump. When he's allowed visitors, another few hours after that, they rise from their uneasy rest and troop down the hall to see their fellow agent.

Propped up on a gurney in an ugly off-yellow gown, a shadow of beard already growing in, Ricciardi is only half awake. Dawes shakes his hand, congratulating his partner on a good prognosis; Micheko goes so far as to give him a kiss to the cheek, prompting a slightly woozy blush from the patient. Toru asks how he feels, and Ricciardi answers with a grin that the morphine is plentiful and life ain't all bad.

'He should rest through the night,' the nurse informs them, shooing them toward the door. 'If one of you wants to sit for a while, he'll probably sleep.'

'I would, if you don't mind,' Quatre says, surprising Toru. It seems to surprise Ricciardi, too, judging by the wide eyes he makes, sliding into an odd, still expression.

'Sure,' Ricciardi agrees at last. 'Thanks. Don't steal my jelly.'

'No promises,' Quatre replies, a ghost of a smile finally lightening his pale face.

At the door, Dawes raises his eyebrows at Toru. 'I'm knackered,' he says. 'I'd rather ring the nearest hotel than try the lobby all night. You too? Plenty of mystery left for the morning.'

'Yeah.' Micheko nudges the butterfly stiches on her temple with a sigh. 'Plenty of clean-up, too. Let's hope we haven't pledged the next year of our lives to an endless repeat of stuff like this.'

'Probably,' Toru says.

'Optimstic as ever.' The look she gives him is every bit as strange as the one Ricciardi gave Quatre, but feels entirely different. Toru doesn't know what to make of it. He hopes she'll find a way to linger and talk to him, but when Dawes moves off, she goes with him. Toru scrubs a hand through his hair, reties his ponytail. Okay.

He checks on Ricciardi and Quatre, and finds them talking quietly. Toru doesn't mean to eavesdrop, exactly, but he doesn't call attention to himself, either. He leaves the door cracked just enough to see the two of them, Quatre sitting on the edge of the gurney, Ricciardi curled with an arm about his sore gut.

'I didn't do it for thanks,' Ricciardi says gruffly.

'No doubt.' Quatre taps the edge of the monitor beside the bed, and lets his hand fall. 'Nonetheless. Thank you.'

Ricciardi's stare is a mile long, somewhere over Quatre's shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' he says then. 'About jabbing you with that shit. I know it... I know it makes you weird.'

Quatre draws a deep slow breath, audible even to Toru across the room. 'No,' he answers. 'You did the right thing. I'm glad you did it.'

'Freddie says you stayed with me.'

'I didn't do it for thanks.'

Ricciardi snorts. His laugh ends with a groan, and Quatre's smile fades. 'Aw,' Ricciardi mumbles. 'Man. I hope the rest of your friends have better aim.'

'Count yourself lucky she didn't want you dead.'

'I'll feel luckier when I'm not pissing in a bag.' Ricciardi is quiet then, and Quatre moves to the chair after all, elbows on his knees, head bent low. Toru almost turns to go, but stops when he hears Ricciardi, faint with sleep, speak one more time.

'You think the next ones'll be any better than this?'

Quatre doesn't answer, and Toru, sad for him, doesn't stay.


	27. Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Toru. Whose parents are both Newtypes. And who's chosen a time that suddenly looks quite inconvenient to assert that parental heritage. He's a Peacecraft. The only Peacecraft who hasn't betrayed Preventers. Yet._

Ricciardi peels the next card from the pack, eyes closed, and holds it up, the blank blue of the back facing Quatre. 'Come on,' he prods. 'You're seven for nine.'

Quatre wipes a shaky hand over the sweat on his brow. Fearing a return of the gag reflex, Toru nudges the basin near. But the moment passes. 'Knave,' Quatre rasps.

'Knave of what.'

Quatre breathes hard, rolling his head toward the wall. 'Clubs.'

Ricciardi checks the face. 'Eight for ten.'

'All right, I'll bite,' Toru says, trying to keep a light mood despite Quatre's obvious difficulty. 'What are you showing me?'

'Bastard's a card-counter,' Ricciardi answers, tossing that card aside and picking up another. 'Ask him how he does it.'

Toru obliges. 'Don't even tell me this is a Newtype thing.'

Quatre declines to elaborate. After a moment, Ricciardi does it for him. 'Statistical probabilities. A pack has fifty-two cards, four suites, ace, knave, queen, king. I had a buddy who used to try it at card games. Couldn't hold his liquor, though, so we always won our money back by the end.' Ricciardi taps his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. 'If your Newtype ability is reading possibilities, then--'

'It looks a lot like counting cards. I get it.' And double-blind, so they could be sure Quatre isn't reading it off Ricciardi. Smart. 'Why are we doing it, though?'

'To distract me.' Quatre offers a weak smile. 'And inadvertantly discovering it's possible to do so. We ran out of the serum four hours ago.'

Guilty, Toru scratches at his hair, wishing again, futilely, that they'd planned something better. 'I wish you'd take a sedative, Quatre.'

'You need to know if Iva's starting something again. I'm the easiest metric. If I start--'

'Then let me at least take you out of the hospital. You can metric all you want away from a thousand people crammed into a small building.'

'Separating your team wouldn't be wise. You have your--' Quatre inhales sharply, face going pinched, but it passes again. 'Protocols,' he finishes airlessly. 'I'll hold out.'

'Micheko texted. Sun's shuttle should be landing right about now.' Toru would try to calm him, if Ricciardi weren't in the room; he's been doing it all night with Iva, for all the good it is. He can't stop them being Newtypes, and it's a toxic mix. He'd arranged to get Sun on a shuttle as soon as humanly possible, and Micheko had gone to pick her up from the port fifteen minutes ago. 'You'll make it,' Toru says, knowing it's true and knowing as well they should have been better at it.

'I'm due a sponge bath,' Ricciardi says finally, stacking the pack into a neat pile and leaving it sitting it on the edge of Quatre's bed. 'The nurses get upset when I mess with their routine.'

'No flirting,' Quatre tells him, in that worn-to-nothing voice.

'What's the point of a sponge bath if you can't have the happy ending?' Ricciardi smartly wheels himself about, propelling his chair toward the door. 'Feel free to drop in on me. Mind-wise. I don't mind sharing.'

Toru gets the door for him, and follows him out a step into the hall. 'Since when are you two so friendly?' he asks, keeping a foot in the jamb and squinting dry eyes at the bright overhead light of the corridor.

'I'm doing my job, Craft.' Ricciardi's glare is no less potent for coming from Toru's waist-height. 'I don't know if he undersold us or if we overestimated him, but if he can't turn it off without a magic jab, our plans fall apart pretty rapidly.'

'Maybe not. Maybe he doesn't need to come with us, next time.'

'Then he loses his leverage with the brass.'

That's perceptive. As both an insight and a warning to Toru to word his report more carefully. Toru chews the inside of his cheek. 'Maybe we won't have this kind of issue with the next ones. He wasn't this bad with Rzhevsky.'

'He was other kinds of off with Rzhevsky,' Ricciardi says. 'He was in the room with the guy for ten minutes in London and he went off on a cross-contintental walkabout. Tell me that's not connected.'

'He was going after Heero.'

'He didn't plan on it til he was in the room with Rzhevsky, though, did he. You've got one Newtype with a fatal lack of self-restraint and another with a pretty strong streak of schizo, and both of them rub off pretty quickly. Winner's got more than just reading minds, doesn't he? Didn't you say he's an empath too?'

'I never--' Toru hesitates. 'He said he had a little of it, as a kid.'

'Maybe it wasn't so little.' Ricciardi's wristlet starts to blink a red light and beep, and they both glance down, distracted. 'I fucking hate hospitals,' the other agent mutters, but wheels about in obedience to his summons. 'He'll talk to the girl. I told you we should've put cameras on them. At the very least you can slip a microphone into her purse or something.'

'That's illegal,' Toru calls after him.

'Smart, though,' he thinks he hears in answer, before Ricciardi turns the corner and disappears.

With Ricciardi gone, Toru resumes his seat on the bed. There's sweat on Quatre's temples, heat on his neck when Toru blots his skin with a cool damp cloth. But when he tries to take Quatre's hand, Quatre snatches it back, rolling protectively. 'Hey,' Toru objects. 'I'm trying to help.'

'So am I.' Quatre rolls his shirtcuffs down, covering his fingers. 'Remember what we've talked about, with touch. You may be drawn into this as soon as being able to fix it.'

'I hadn't thought of that.' Toru chews his lip. 'I wasn't before. I haven't been with Iva.'

'But we don't know for sure.'

'How about you let me make that decision, okay? Besides, we've got a control group out there-- Sun and Micheko. If anything goes haywire, and it won't, they'll deal with it.' He takes Quatre's hands firmly in his, brooking none of the protest he sees starting in Quatre's face. Instead he closes his eyes, and drops into a meditative mantra.

He can tell by the slow slackening of Quatre's grip that it's working. When there's no more tension and he's the one holding tight, he looks up, to find nearly a half hour has passed. He wipes his itchy nose on his shoulder, and the jostle brings Quatre's eyes up to his. He'd thought maybe the other man was sleeping.

'No,' Quatre murmurs. 'But it helps. Thank you.' He squeezes Toru's fingers, and lets go. There are still lines of tension eating away at the corners of his eyes, his mouth, but the pain is gone. 'Don't worry so much about me,' Quatre says then. 'It's better for now we keep your secret. I've been this way most of my life and I'll keep on the way I've managed so far. Don't give up your own freedom chasing after my comfort.'

'I just don't see how it's sustainable,' Toru confesses, letting his anxiety show, since Quatre's reading it anyway. 'You remember what you told me, when we first met? That Newtypes are so dangerous and uncontrolled that they might flatten city blocks.'

'Yes,' Quatre says.

'I don't know if I ever really believed that. Even knowing what my father did... even after we learnt what Rzhevsky did. I guess I always sort of thought you were probably... probably exaggerating.'

Quatre doesn't reply to that right away. Beneath bruised lids his eyes are moving rapidly. 'Not exaggerating,' he whispers at last. 'But perhaps I was not quite right. It's not our power that's frightening. It's our lack of control. It's not sheer physical destruction. It's that we might hurt people without meaning to. She's unbelievably sad, Toru. She's been so alone.'

'So have you.'

There's strain in the silence now. The way Quatre's chest moves suggests difficulty breathing. 'I thought I could do it.'

'Do what? Find the other Newtypes?' He touches Quatre's knee. 'You will. You know you will. Sun said she saw it.'

'I believe her. But I'm no longer sure what it will look like.'

Now Toru understands. 'You said you didn't want another Koh-i-Noor.'

'But I wanted them to have a home.' Quatre swallows. 'Me to have a home. I thought... I was foolish. And I expected too much.'

'Maybe just too quickly. It could still happen. Don't give up just because the first one is hard.'

'Not just for that.' Quatre wets his lips. 'Toru. I know you've wondered why the-- the frantic pace of this. There was a reason for the urgency. Sun...'

Toru sits up keenly. 'I knew there was something odd between the two of you. She dropped hints, too. What did she see? She did see something, didn't she? About you? The Newtypes?'

'She—' Quatre braces himself. 'What she saw—'

His head turns toward the door just a second before the knock, and Toru is already cursing, heart pounding from the surprise of it. From the frustration of one more missed opportunity. Quatre's pale lips quirk at him in grim amusement.

'It's open, Agent Walker,' he calls.

'Mr Winner?' Micheko, inching open the door enough to poke in her head. 'You have a visitor.'

Quatre pushes himself upright just in time to be knocked back with Sun's rather uninhibited embrace. Toru slides awkwardly off the bed, out of the way, as Quatre's hand tentatively comes to rest on Sun's loose cloud of hair. 'Well, hello, dearest,' Quatre greets her, and smiles bemusedly when she kisses his cheek.

'Hey.' Toru takes the opportunity to sidle up to Micheko. 'You okay?' he asks her, sotto voce with Quatre and Sun enjoying their reunion too quietly not to hear anything he says. 'You look rough,' he says, and then tries to backpedal that to, 'I mean, you look like, uh, you need a nap.'

'Always a charmer.'

'Yeah,' Toru says, sheepish. Micheko rolls her head on her neck, dragging at the lapels of her coat. Like him, like Dawes, like Quatre, she's sporting more wrinkles than ironed suit, now, and none of them have had enough sleep since Ricciardi and their Newtype prisoner came wheeling in dripping blood. Her fingers drag at presumably sore muscle on her shoulder, but her eyes never come up to his all the way. He doesn't take it for deliberate til he turns to fully face her, and realises she's putting effort into not fully facing him. 'Something up?'

'Did you get Dawes' text? He thinks we ought to book a flight out as soon as we can get Ricciardi cleared for flight.'

Toru checks his phone. The message is there, with nothing more to it than what Micheko just relayed. 'Sure. I think we'll all feel better back on Earth.'

'I can get started on that. You should be on Iva, you know. She's a bigger flight risk than Mr Winner.'

 _Not really,_ he says, pushing the thought out at her, and frowning when she hunches a shoulder in a flinch. _Sorry. But I'm not entirely sure about that calculus. I can't get him to move to the motel, but I don't know how much longer he'll last here. I'm a little worried about what happens when he snaps._

She swallows visibly. 'Well. Um, it's. Yes. All the more reason to get on a shuttle.'

_Are you all right? Cheko, tell me._

She holds him off by grabbing her own phone from her coat pocket. 'Walker,' she says, putting it to her ear. She makes a grimace that's half apology and half something indecipherable, and ducks out the door. She pulls it closed behind her.

Toru has no idea what to make of that. Other than being ninety percent sure she'd just faked a call to get away from him. He hadn't heard it ring or even vibrate.

Sun is not only more robust in her sudden displays of affection than him, she's also more successful at demonstrations of her talent. This time Winner is asleep, as she strokes his hair. His breathing is so shallow and slow that Toru almost checks him. 'You should teach me,' he murmurs to Sun, taking her hand and giving her a greeting of his own, a bump of their shoulders and a warm smile. 'I'm so glad you're here.'

'How is he, Toru? Really?'

'He's okay. Aside from the obvious. Kind of a miracle, actually. He shielded Agent Ricciardi with his own body, you know. He's a hero.'

'He's a fool.'

That's unwontedly harsh, specially given the way she still caresses Quatre's cheek, keeping him under. 'That's usually what people say about me,' Toru tries. 'Will you tell me what's wrong? Will someone finally tell me what's wrong?' She's glowing. So is Quatre. Toru isn't sure what she's doing, how it's working with Quatre out cold. If it's voluntary.

Sun twists her thick hair over one shoulder, a loose rope that unravels slowly once freed. She says, 'Agent Walker made it sound like... like he was.'

Was. Was what? 'Ricciardi was shot,' Toru fills in. 'The agent who was just here. I don't know if you met him before. Quatre saved his life. And Quatre shot Iva. It's-- kind of rough going around here. We fucked up,' he says, thinking blunt honesty will fill the odd hole in his gut, but it doesn't. 'You should have been here. I'm sorry.'

'You didn't decide it. He did.'

'You mean Commander Po.'

'No,' Sun says. 'I don't.'

Sun's fingers play with his, tracing his rough knuckles. Toru says, a change of topic and not really a change at all, 'What happened on L1-- I mean what really happened, the things I couldn't say in front of Commander Po and the Director. I can do what you do. Calm Newtypes.'

'That makes sense.'

'Have you known other Newtykes who can do that?'

'I don't know. It was just usually something I did.' Her shoulders move in a shrug. 'I thought it was more that Papa and Mama were the leaders. I'm their eldest, so when the new ones would come in, it was proper for me to be the one to sit with them, instead of one of the others.'

That sounds so peculiar that he has to twist to look at her. One more time he wonders at Koh-i-Noor, the strange place he can't really imagine any more, for all he spent a day there. 'You've said before you never put labels on anything. But aren't you at least curious about whether we can all do the same things?'

'It was never needful.'

'You're smarter than that,' he says bluntly. 'You didn't wake up wanting to leave because it was bad there, you left because you wanted to know the rest of the world. That has to include your own kind.'

'The rest of the world isn't like our kind. I'm curious about that.'

'Sure. But if that outweighed Newtypes, you would have left before. What made it so important to go with us? With Quatre.'

Her eyes angle away. Impatient, Toru drops her hand, leaves the bed and the people driving him mad with their inability to express whole sentences. He invites himself into Quatre's ensuite, to run a palmful of water from the little sink in the cubicle, splashing his face, wiping the back of his neck. He rubs his hand under his nose, over tired eyes. His face in the mirror is grim.

She's still sitting there when he steps out again. He says, 'Tell me the truth. Quatre. He's the reason, isn't he. Did you know he was coming to Koh-i-Noor?'

Her dark lashes go down in a sweep, shadowing her cheeks. When she meets his eyes, then, they're past dissembling. 'Yes.'

He doesn't hesitate on his next question. He's asked it before, but knows now he'll finally get an answer. 'You saw something about him. Not just that this stuff with finding the other Newtypes will work. You saw something specifically about him. You even-- Lord, you even got a fake passport. You were ready for him to come.'

'No,' she says.

'I don't believe you,' he tells her, crossing the carpet toward her. Her head tilts, unintimidated. 'What did you see that was so important you left the only place you've ever been to follow him?' Then, even as his voice rises, he realises that he already knows. He swallows. 'You saw him die, didn't you. You didn't expect him to come back.'

'No.' 

'Then what, Sun? What?'

'I didn't see anything.' She unfolds her hand across the quilt on Quatre's chest, fingers spread wide, as seeking help, rescue, but Quatre's unconscious and safe from Toru's anger. In a low voice, she says, 'I see things about most people. Little things, sometimes, but always something. With Quatre, all I knew was that one day he would come. But then when he did, he was so ill, so weak. I thought that was why there was nothing after Koh-i-Noor. But he recovered, and we left, and it still works with other people, so... so I don't know. I was afraid for him, but if it's not death, I don't know what it is.'

He doesn't know what to say to that. Quatre's face is slack, eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids. He's glowing. He's been glowing since they ran out of the serum. It may not be death. But they're getting awfully close. This is the Quatre who couldn't live out in the world, the Quatre who was probably close to dying before he got to Koh-i-Noor, to a Sun who was maybe or maybe not expecting him to come stumbling in, who rescued him, so he could rescue her.

'Come meet Iva,' he says, just before the silence has gone on so long it's awkward. 'And-- maybe you could teach me. To do it better.'

Iva's room is on the far side of the hospital, which isn't saying much. Dawes is there, standing guard; they've all taken turns, partially because Toru was trying to split himself between her and Quatre, partially to mask the attempts he'd been making in there to do what Sun does so effortlessly. Sun will cover for his tries, at least; Iva's moments of lucidity will look less connected to Toru and more like flukes in mood, with Iva so obviously reacting to Sun instead of the incremental progress Toru managed. Dawes, at least, questions nothing, and leaves his post with only a nod, off to catch a rest while it's available.

Iva's a small woman, reduced by years of hard living to little more than her tiny frame. She lays in a twist on the gurney, handcuffed with leather and metal. The nurse who's been cleared for access is there, checking the chart, taking temperatures, adjusting the sedatives. Toru has a quiet word, explaining they'll be using-- he's a shit liar, and he stumbles on it, but the nurse is all wide eyes, impressed with the badge and not so subtly impressed with Sun, who smiles benignly-- Preventers will be taking over the medication, Toru says, and the nurse walks into the door trying to leave, and goes with a deep blush.

Sun does nothing more threatening than sit on the edge of Iva's gurney, hands folded in her lap. Toru is slower, approaching, remembering-- mostly-- how this woman had nearly shot him in the head. There's a faint, confused frown on her face, eyes that don't focus entirely. If she knows that was him, if she knows he's even met her before, it doesn't show.

So he tells her. 'Hi,' he says, stopping a foot away from her bed, and putting his hands in his pockets, even if it is against protocol and probably stupid besides. 'My name is Thorulf Peacecraft.'

Her eyes rise. Her lower lip goes white between her teeth.

'I'm Sunrise Noventa-Yuy,' Sun echoes, adopting both his informal presentation of something rather radically astounding for a certain generation, and also his understanding of the value of their names. But Sun takes him one step further, reaching across the distance, the political divide, the years of unknowable and definitely dangerous things they're going to have to say next, and just takes Iva's hand.

It works its usual magic. Iva swallows. Hard. But then, as if she's rusty on the mechanics of it, she nods her head hello.

'We'd like to take you with us to Brussels,' Toru tells her then, figuring it might be better to start at the beginning, and anyway he doesn't know if anyone ever actually told her what they're planning, and that she's not precisely being asked for her opinion. 'Preventers have a base there. Our Headquarters on Earth. We've made this place for Newtypes to live in. You're the first. Well-- really Quatre is the first. Quatre Winner. He's the Newtype who was with us when we, um, found you.'

'Winner.' The dark pouches beneath her eyes go taut as she stares at him. 'I know that name.'

'He was the pilot of Gundam Sandrock. During the Eve War.' Toru pokes his tongue at his cheek, and decides the connection might be a good one, given she's colonial. 'Like Sun's father, Heero Yuy. And my father--'

'Epyon.' The cuff on her hand rattles. She rolls her head to stare blearily at it. 'I was at Libra,' she says. 'Peacemillion crew.'

'Did you know them, then? The Pilots?' She shakes her head, a tiny negation. Toru hesitates, wondering what next. This is already more than they'd got with all of his team standing around, and he's reluctant to learn too much too fast, with no way of explaining it beyond pointing to Sun and swearing it all away with her mysterious powers. At some point it will build up too much on Sun, and Preventers will stop catering to her just because Quatre asked them to.

'My baby?' Iva asks then, interrupting his thoughts.

Sun cups Iva's hand in both of hers, preparing her. 'She's here,' Toru says. 'Being taken care of. Good care.'

'I want to see her.'

'I think--' Toru hesitates, and then just opts for the truth. 'They're waiting to be sure you're not a danger to yourself or others.' Her face pulls long in pain. But she doesn't protest it. 'I'll bring her in the morning,' Toru promises then. 'I swear she'll be okay til then.'

'I brought a newspaper to read,' Sun murmurs at last. 'Maybe you'd like to listen to me read it? I'm sure they'll be along with your supper soon.'

Iva's throat moves in a swallow. 'I'm not hungry.'

Sun ignores the patent lie. 'That's all right,' she says. 'It's just something to do.' Sun smiles, and Iva nods tiredly.

'Iva.' Toru gently reclaims her attention. 'There's something we've been trying to find out. Your baby, Beatriz. Who's her father? We can try to find him for you.'

'No!' The sudden violence of her reaction bounces off the walls, launches her straining against the cuffs. Toru yanks his hands out of his pockets, one to his sidearm and one oustretched, appealing but also at ready. Without the drugs that sway her uncertainly, Toru has no doubt in that moment that, sober, he would have been physiscally restraining her. As it is, Sun is the one who restores calm. She whispers, she strokes Iva's shoulder, til Iva slumps wearily. Toru wets his lips.

'No,' Iva mouths, tears leaking down her cheeks, checked only with the rough swipe of her sleeve across her face.

'It happens, sometimes,' Sun tells him later. They'd stayed til nearly midnight, but if they are to launch tomorrow, they'll want for a bit of rest first, and Toru is walking her down the street to their motel. 'To the women more than the men.'

'It might have been assault, but it might have been another Newtype, you know, someone she'd try to hide from us,' Toru says, thumbs working on the keyboard of his reader, filing an enquiry for the colonial police force. 'She would have had treatment, during her pregnancy. She had to give birth in a hospital, or maybe one of those crisis pregnancy centers. They might have investigated it, if she reported it.'

'She didn't.' Sun touches the edge of his case reader, til he lowers it. 'Newtypes don't want people asking questions. That's going to include your Preventers.'

'That won't stop Preventers from asking.'

'Maybe. Until you decide what it is you want from them.'

'Sun, don't. Don't. Until you're ready to be honest with me, I don't want you to talk to me about Newtypes.'

'I was,' she protests, but her hand drops from his, and she hugs her arms close, a defencive gesture that strikes him all wrong.

He pushes a roomkey on her. 'You know what,' he says, 'I think I'll deliver this enquiry by hand. I'll see you tomorrow when we move Quatre and Iva to the port.'

'Toru.'

'Just leave me alone for a bit.' He feels her stare on his back, and tries not to let it bully him. 'You know,' he tells the stale L1 air, 'I'm the last person who cares if you want to make a life for yourself. But if you thought Quatre was going to die and you came all the way out here just to watch while he threw himself away on a Newtype dream, you don't come out of that looking very good.'

She doesn't answer. He refuses to feel badly for saying it. He walks away from her, and doesn't look back as he crosses the street for the hospital.

 

**

 

The shuttle ride is fantastically awful. They get Quatre a seat in the rear and Iva cuffed to a berth in the curtained off part of the cabin usually reserved for stewards, and Sun takes Quatre and Toru takes their prisoner, but Sun's last-minute lesson in how to turn calm into healing doesn't take. Iva is restless, morose, and not a little bit in mourning. Toru knows because it makes Quatre cry. His tears are second-hand, and helpless and frustrated, and Sun looks very nearly as miserable as he does, unable to help either of their Newtypes.

By the time they land no-one is in great shape. It's his fourth time coming back to Headquarters carting a Newtype, he thinks. Quatre, Ishaq, Quatre again, with Sun and Trowa Barton and a lot more hope than this time. This time, there's no energy, no plans, no sense of something more waiting just round the corner. Just weariness. Toru drops his head back against the seat. Their escort seems determined to take the long way back to base, and mid-day traffic is wretched. Their convoy is barely making it through street lights, so determined to stay together that they never make any actual progress.

Micheko twists on the bench to check out the rear window. Quatre's the next car back, alone with just Sun and the driver, the most mercy they could arrange. Dawes is with Ricciardi in the last humvee, keeping an eye on his recovering partner. And their other Newtype is sandwiched between, alone with fresh and well-armed Preventer guards.

He'd expected a nuclear explosion when they'd separated her from her baby. Calm, or despair. She hadn't said a thing.

The baby stirs against his chest. Toru shifts her, as Micheko's eyes drop to him. He tucks the infant beneath his chin, and the little girl sighs, soft pink lips pursing to a kiss, and her eyes stay closed.

At long damn last they turn a familiar corner, and they begin the winding path through the gates onto base. Toru eases up, Micheko helping with the baby blanket wrapping the infant against the weather, and together they get her situated in the hospital-supplied bassinet. By the time a teething ring, the bottle, the nappies, and the bag of dirty cloths and mopped-up formula spill are collected and divided between them and Micheko makes a play to get the baby from him so he can carry that and their luggage, they're pulling around the far drive and headed toward the hangar repurposed for Newtypes. Toru, keeping his reservations to himself, watches it grow near in their window.

They have a formal delegation to greet their arrival. Director Sobrinho has come in his august, slightly portly person, and Sally stands beside him. Two very similar frowns deepen noticeably when Toru and Micheko emerge from their vehicle.

'Welcome back to Earth,' Sobrinho states drily. 'I see you have some success under your belt.'

The baby, waked by all the jostling, starts to cry. Micheko tries to hush her. 'Sorry,' she says. 'She's been quiet all the drive. Toru--'

Sally has an odd look on her face as Toru takes the baby back. He jiggles and hums softly against the shell of her tiny ear, and, with a hiccough, she quiets. Micheko heaves a long sigh.

'I'll help with Ricciardi,' Micheko mutters, nodding to the Director, and steps back.

'Your report was interesting,' Sobrinho says.

'Yes, sir.' Toru bends to deposit his duffel on cement. He tucks a bare baby arm back into the blanket. 'The Newtype is Makayla Szabados. She goes by Iva.'

They're getting her out of the car. She's awake, more or less, sedated. Her movements are sluggish, and her head stays down. She doesn't resist the agents escorting her inside the hangar, but she does stare after Quatre, who stumbles out of his vehicle, Sun's hands slipping from his elbows. He bends double over his knees, coughing out a stream of vomit. Iva's head bows. Sobrinho, also watching, makes a little moue of distaste. The Director doesn't move to greet anyone else til Ricciardi emerges, helped out by Dawes and the driver. Ricciardi makes some grimaces, but keeps his feet, and even laughs at something his partner says.

'Excuse me,' Sobrinho murmurs then. 'I'd like to go congratulate my agent on his recovery.' He claps Toru on the shoulder as he passes.

Sally steps in to mimic the Director's gesture, but adds a kiss to Toru's cheek. 'When you came out with a baby I had a moment,' she says wryly. 'You've been such a good boy your whole life. I'm not ready to be a grandmother.'

Despite himself he colours. The rest of the condoms are in his luggage at his feet, after all. 'Um,' he says.

'She's darling.' Sally touches the baby's downy hair. 'What's her name?'

'Beatriz,' Toru replies, watching Sally smile. She glances up at Toru, then.

'You were little like this once,' she says. 'It's hard to believe. And you had the thickest patch of dark hair. I thought for sure you'd turn out more like Lucy.'

His mother. It's strange, hearing her name. Sally almost never speaks of his parents, even in the days when Toru had cried himself to sleep for missing them. If it has anything to do with his recent insistence that she acknowledge his Peacecraft history, well-- well.

Toru shifts from foot to foot. 'It wasn't a great first run. Success aside.'

'So you said.' Sally nods toward the group behind them. 'We'll debrief. Can Quatre handle it? We have a medic on standby.'

'I think he'd do better if we put some distance between him and Iva.'

She looks at him curiously for that. 'I suppose I'll get a fuller explanation shortly,' she shrugs. 'I'd take us back toward Main, but the Director doesn't have long. Quatre will just have to make it as long as he can, and when he's done for, he can go.'

That pretty much answers for all of them, really. Toru carries the baby inside, trailing his Commander at a distance. 

 

Dawes brings a glass of water from the carafe on the desk for Ricciardi. 'Makayla Szabados,' he says, sliding the case file onto the table beside the big basket of baby blanket and teething toys and an errant pink bonnet. 'She goes by Iva, her grandmother's name. It's odd, her's is the one name we all turned up in our fake, well, our imagined searches, and hers is the one name none of us went after. Highly specific skill she's got, that.'

'It says to me that she can only bend what already exists,' Toru guesses. 'We all knew the case well enough to pluck out potential suspects, but Makayla's the only one who really exists. We all knew that, somehow, because in reality we'd all found her.'

'And she shot Ricciardi?' Sally asks, glancing up from her reading.

Dawes shrugs an apologetic shoulder at his partner. 'At this point, much as I'd like to lay blame elsewhere, there's no reconstructing it. All we know for sure is that someone was aiming at Winner. Cass pushed him out the way, got shot.'

'Winner dragged me to the cellar,' Ricciardi finishes. 'Interesting thing is, apparently getting a bullet in the navel shocked me out of the-- whatever we're going to call it, the dream-state.'

'At which point he was aware enough to think of using the serum on me,' Quatre adds in a voice worn to nothing, from his position at the far end of the table. His iPod is in his hand, his head leaning against the wall beside him. The pounding bass is audible across the room. Sun sits with him, her hand on his knee. 

'Why?' Director Sobrinho asks. 'Why use the serum on him?'

'To help me,' Quatre says, unhelpfully, and out of turn, for that matter, as Sobrinho had clearly directed that at his agent, not the Newtypes. Toru raises his eyebrows.

Sobrinho crosses his hands on the table. 'I'd have thought you of all people, Mr Winner, would be displeased by this... circumstance.'

'The development of a weapon capable of bringing down a Newtype.' Quatre does not blink, and Toru quietly thinks he's the one who wins the staring contest, not the Director. 'Not best pleased, no,' Quatre rasps. 'But not surprised. Agent Ricciardi took extreme action, and I have no doubt he was under orders not to alert me to it. Fortunately for all of us, he disobeyed.'

'The serum divorced Mr Winner from his lock on Iva's ability,' Toru says, carefully drawing the Director's attention and breaking the tension in the room. 'Mr Winner says his ability is to see both the reality we're living in and the potential for change to that reality in any decision that people make, or, well, that's how I understand it, I guess. The potential changes that result from decisions and actions and--' Quatre puts his hand to his mouth and looks away. 'Yeah,' Toru says. 'And Ms Szabados' ability is to make people see different realities than what they're actually living. So between Quatre reading that off her and her broadcasting five realities all at the same time-- kablowee, I guess. Til Ricciardi stuck him with the juice, and then he had no Newtype ability at all.'

'But he wasn't pulled into her illusions,' Sally says, frowning.

'Not at that point,' Quatre murmurs.

'I think it was starting to collapse on her,' Toru explains. 'We'd made it all the way to her home. Not a home, exactly, the tenament was condemned and due to-- I'm getting off the track. We'd made it to her, before she had a reason to attack us-- not attack. Defend herself the only way she had, by making us think we weren't actually there.'

'And at some point there were bullets.' Micheko is frowning, too, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. 'She must have thought we were coming for her baby. Mr Winner thinks maybe she did encounter Ivan Rzhevsky. And if she did, he absolutely would have tried to kill her child.'

'So she also has some way of judging intention?' Sobrinho presses.

They look at each other. Quatre shakes his head, not a denial. Sun is even less aid, meeting the Director's eyes with no expression. 'Um,' Toru says. 'Maybe?'

'Is there a reason you don't know anything concrete?'

'She's not talking and Mr Winner can't get near her,' Dawes answers succinctly. 'She's practically catatonic. It's a bit sad, in't it.'

'She's not fighting us, at least,' Toru says, 'and to the extent that she may be able to choose to use her ability, she doesn't appear to be trying to. But I'm not really sure what we do next. Sun, I thought, that is, Ms Ohayashi, seems to be able to help with Newtype-- issues. But she's only one person. I'd advocate we push straight past registration and into treatment, sir, Commander. We knew at least some of the Newtypes would need significant care.'

'And the baby,' Sobrinho aks then. 'What do we know about it?'

'Her name is Beatriz. She seems healthy. A little underweight, but not abnormally. To the extent she could, Iva seems to have been taking care of her.'

'All well and good. But is it a Newtype?'

The silence that follows that fits oddly. Quatre's face is wet, tight around the mouth. Sun's face, usually so open, is remote. Micheko stares at the table.

'She,' Quatre says at last. 'The baby. She's a girl.'

Sally licks her lips, makes a little movement of her hand, not quite to hush, not quite to apologise. 'Yes, of course, Quatre. But the question isn't unreasonable. There's a lot we still don't know.'

'No. She's not a Newtype.'

'Would it make a difference if both parents were Newtypes?' Sobrinho presses him. 'Perhaps it's a recessive trait.'

'I don't know.'

'But we have a subject we can test. We have the samples you provided, Mr Winner. Comparison to genetic material from this Newtype Iva and her child--'

'You'll have to ask her consent, obviously.'

Not so obvious. There's a pretty strong argument to be made that Iva's mentally unstable. And if she's unfit for parental duties, she can be removed of her parental rights just as quickly. Quatre's contract with Preventers would let that play through.

And-- it occurs to Toru, sitting there watching it play out between them, that Sobrinho isn't just talking about Iva's daughter. Because they have got a subject to test, and one who signed away the rights to his personal privacy when he took the oath. Toru. Whose parents are both Newtypes. And who's chosen a time that suddenly looks quite inconvenient to assert that parental heritage. He's a Peacecraft. The only Peacecraft who hasn't betrayed Preventers. Yet.

That knowledge is there in Quatre's face, too, something not unlike grief. He looks at Toru, troubled, and doesn't protest. He doesn't say a word, after that.

Dawes clears his throat. 'I'd propose that in the future we bring Ms Ohayashi along for the runs,' he says, professionalism both refuge and distraction. 'If she'd been with Mr Winner from the beginning, maybe he wouldn't have been drawn in so deep with Iva's ability, and we could have prevented a shoot-out. Cass wouldn't be injured. We wouldn't have a mess with the colonials.'

'There's no use in crying over spilt milk.' Sobrinho sighs over their case notes, and turns off the reader with a sigh. 'I agree that Ms Ohayashi should be part of the team in the future. And I think in the future we need to apply the lessons we've learnt here-- it's not enough to track the Newtypes down. We need to neutralise them faster. Between Rzhevsky, Mr Winner, Ishaq Khosa, this woman Iva-- every modern encounter with a Newtype has been messy as hell.' Sobrinho checks his watch, then, as it beeps a tinny alarm. 'I'll be late if I don't hurry off,' he says. He rises to go, gathering his case reader and shaking the hand Sally extends him. 'I look forward to reading the reports. Commander Po. Agent Ricciardi, take it easy for a while, that's an order.' To the rest of them, nothing. He sucks all the oxygen out of the room when he leaves.

'Get those reports to me as soon as you can,' Sally murmurs, checking her own watch with a distracted frown. 'Dawes, Walker, handle Iva's registration, and let's get her started on a doctor's care. Same for you, Quatre. You need fluids, and rest. I can see your pulse from here.'

Ricciardi pushes heavily to his feet. 'You shouldn't stay here, not if the other Newtype is bugging you. We'll put you up in the barracks until we figure it out.'

Quatre inclines his head, and tiredly does not raise it. His glow is sputtering, flaring as he lets go Sun's hand, leaving her with a gentle kiss to the shining crown of her hair. He touches Toru's shoulder on his way past, a pause that's heavily weighted but ultimately uniformative. He and Ricciardi leave.

Toru checks the baby in her carrier. Asleep, her chin doubled and drool dripping down to her bib, she looks far too harmless to fall under Preventers' threat assessment. But that's the world they live in, now. She's a Newtype's child. Like Toru.

Sun touches his wrist. Her fingers curl about his. When he turns and pulls her close, she comes willingly. 'I'm sorry,' he starts, but she only shakes his head, and squeezes him tight.

'Quatre won't let them, Toru. He'll think of something.'

'Will he? He's out of moves. We all saw it. He spent it all getting that contract out of Preventers. If we hadn't found a baby--' A baby Quatre couldn't have known existed, because he has no way of sensing Newtykes. Because Ivan Rzhevsky had done his level best to eradicate all child-bearing Newtypes and by everything they knew had succeeded, except, except. Iva with her strange talent had survived him. And so Preventers had a Newtyke in reach, and knew it.

Toru pulls in a slow breath, til his head tingles oddly and his lungs feel stretched. Mind to mind, in the silence, Toru tells Sun, _If I have to run with the baby, to keep her away from them, I'll do it._

His first time communicating with her like that has no room in it for surprise. Sun hears him, her eyes grave and troubled. She touches the badge at his breast pocket. It feels like it weighs a hundred tonnes.

 

**

 

'It's nice,' Toru says.

'It's more than nice.' Sun's hand in his seems to bring him calm, too. Her quiet support at his side eases his weariness, the lingering bitter taste he can't quite rid himself of. He follows the sway of her dark hair, loose and thick as black fog down her back, and forgets to look at the wonders of the transformed hangar.

Newtype Central is a transformation, really, considering the budget and the foundation. There are an awful lot of new walls, nothing more than plasterboard, but painted a mild and soothing blue, and if the new carpet smells just a bit like factory import still airing out, then at least the peppermint air fresheners mostly cover the scent. The fact that the light is all from lamps, with the few outer-edge windows sealed over for safety, is ameliorated by the soft orangey glow, mimicking daylight. There's art on the walls, even, photographs of big old forests, beautiful public monuments, artfully dilapidated barns, generic things that nonetheless bring in the outside world to a place that feels oddly divorced from the base, from Brussels, from life being lived by the Normals. It's by no stretch a home, but it's better than the lonely ruin where they'd found Iva.

Sun has a room here now, an en-suite at the end of a newly designed hallway maze. It looks a little barracks-like to Toru, but the fresh flowers make him smile. 'You would,' he says, apropos of nothing, but she smiles and understands. He bends to sniff them, and plucks one from the vase, breaking the stem short to tuck over her ear. Her small hand presses flat over his heart. When he bends to kiss her, she turns her cheek up for him, and brushes his lips with hers after.

'It's a lot,' he says. 'For only a few days. You were okay here alone?'

'Everyone was kind.'

'You would tell me if they weren't,' he says, not so much asking as warning. Her mouth turns up at the corners, warming her blue eyes. 'I'll beat 'em up,' Toru jokes, curling a threatening fist.

'You don't have to defend me.'

'I do. And I would.' He invites himself to sit on her bed, leaning back against the wall. There's a bundle of knitting with a few lines started, a couple of books on the shelf now. A tiny wood carving, a horse, with spindly legs and a lump of a head. He lingers on it for a long time, only partially aware of his silence, of her letting him be that way. When he thinks of it, he discovers her sitting with him, their shoulders touching. He wraps an arm about her.

The rap at the door, left ajar when they entered, brings up both their heads. Toru is unsurprised to find that it's Micheko. He'd been thinking of her. He's been thinking of her, constantly, even when she's no more than a car seat away from him, never quite looking him in the eye.

If she's jealous to find him here with Sun, it doesn't show on her face. She even greets Sun with reasonable warmth, a smile that doesn't quite linger, but the unspoken question on her lips is whether Toru will come after her.

He does. He extricates his embrace, Sun gracefully leaning away to make it seem natural. He straightens his suit coat, returns the wooden horse. 'You're going to see Iva?' he asks, a reminder none of them need. 'Don't let them exhaust you. They'll probably keep her sedated.'

Sun curls a pillow to her chest. 'It's my place,' she says, and Toru wonders if that tone is resignation. She's come all the way from Koh-i-Noor only to find herself doing exactly what she did there. He'd warned her, he's sure that Quatre warned her too, but it might finally be sinking in. She's not any more free to leave than Iva is.

Micheko falls into step with him leaving the hangar. He starts to speak, but he doesn't really know what to say, if there's anything at all to even talk about. Like Sun, he can't quite read her. For once he wishes for a bit of Quatre's ability. He'd give a lot to know what's going on behind those eyes, and what it means for them. Him. But he doesn't say anything, and she doesn't say anything, and it's not til they've been walking almost ten minutes that Toru even realises where she's leading him. Back to his barracks.

Oh, he thinks, and then wonders if he's right, and feels a tingle in his gut that's both anticipatory and wary.

His instincts were right. He slides his keycard against the lock on his dorm, courteously holds the door for Micheko to pass him inside, and the moment he closes it she's pushing him up against it, her hip between his legs, her mouth on his.

Oh, he thinks, and then doesn't think for a while.

They shed their clothes in a rough scramble. Jackets, shirts, buttons, so many buttons. Her tongue rasps against the sandpaper stubble he'd missed on his neck. He can't figure out her bra without seeing the clasp, does better with her belt, smooths his hands down the curve of her panties, the firm muscle beneath. He makes a bit of a miscalculation, trying to hike her legs up about his waist in a grand romantic gesture, doesn't quite get her weight settled, but at least manages to topple them safely onto the unmade bed meant for the bunkmate he still hasn't got. The bare mattress squeaks and bounces. Toru slides backward onto his knees, dragging her panties with him, and bends his head to the mound of wispy dark hair between her legs. She jerks at the touch of his lips, a gasp hitched tight, thighs tensing as he teases with a finger. 'Toru,' he hears her whisper, through the pounding of blood in his ears.

Whoever delivered his baggage earns his immense gratitude. He goes pawing through for the condoms, wedged to the bottom where a cursory shuttleport scan wouldn't reveal them, and he fumbles open a foil packet, hopping awkwardly back to the bunk where Micheko waits. They kiss again, slower now with the urgency a bit abated, but when she finally guides him into her he has to bite his tongue against coming too quickly and embarrassing himself. The rock of her hips makes up for his lack of coordination, the scritch of her fingernails against his shoulders. She's so beautiful. She's so beautiful, and he feels so full with it, full with her. When orgasm does wash over him, leaving him burning and shaking, he says her name.

They lie loosely spooning after. He likes feeling her breathe, the subtle beat of her heart against his chest. His room is hot, and the sun through the window is too bright for total comfort. It's gold against his eyelids, even when he hides them against her hair.

'I thought you were avoiding me,' he says, after a soul search for the energy to break the silence. 'Glad to be wrong.'

'You weren't. I was.'

He considers that, absent any real emotion in the face of evidence that, whatever the reason, she's clearly done doing it. He arrives at his own conclusions, to the matched beat of their hearts. 'I frightened you. On L1.'

'All of you,' she confesses quietly. 'I guess... I guess I never really believed it, before. Rzhevsky. Mr Winner. Khosa. They're just men, even if they had these other... abilities. It was interesting, not scary. I guess I never realised how very much they weren't using their abilities to hurt people.'

'I don't think Iva did mean to hurt us. She could have shot me, and she didn't. I'm not even sure she ever actually shot at any of us to injure. Whoever shot at Quatre--'

'I did.'

Toru inhales, and holds it. 'Okay,' he says slowly. 'Can you even be sure of that?'

'I remember doing it, Toru.' Micheko rolls away from him, and he resettles his arm about her shoulders after a pause. 'And I know I didn't dream it because Ricciardi has a hole in his gut. I didn't want to kill him. But I thought if he was incapacitated--' Her voice hitches. 'I don't know if Ricciardi remembers, but Mr Winner does. Or he'd know I remember. Why protect me? Why not tell the truth?'

'Because he likes you.'

'Because he thinks he owes me. For my father.'

He doesn't know what to say about that. 'It's okay, Cheko.'

Her fingers overlay his on her belly. Her hands are smaller than his, almost two whole knuckles smaller, but warm, skin on skin. He rests his chin on her slim shoulder. He can practically feel her thinking, and squeezes her to let her know he's there.

'The girl,' Micheko says finally. 'She's not this Ohayashi or whatever. You always hesitate on her name.'

He'd known that would be noticed sooner than later. 'Yeah.'

'She's not a Newtype.' When Toru hesitates, Micheko twists her head to look him in the eye. 'She's not. Mr Winner never reacts to her. And this thing she does for him, that's not like the things any other Newtype does. Newtype abilities are weapons. Toru. When Commander Po told me to keep an eye on you, I thought it was crazy, or-- over-- overly cautious-- I--'

'You saw me. On L1, with Iva.'

'I filed a report with Po.'

He lets go at that, sitting up, away. He wants to be angry about it. He will be angry about it, later, but it hits him in a kind of numb spot in his chest. Thoughts fire off without quite catching up to the feeling behind them. Trust, or not-trust. Something not exactly betrayal, because she's doing her job, watching him, and she's clever at it, she's learnt almost as much about Newtypes as he has, just from watching, but he can't be proud, not when it ends this way.

At his back, Micheko says, 'You should be with them. With the girl. You'd be happier with someone who's like you, Toru.'

He doesn't know what to say to that, so in the end he says nothing. She's filed a report. So this is it. This is very probably the end of everything he'd ever imagined he'd get out of life. The beginning of whatever it's going to change into. It won't be the same.

Micheko sits up beside him. She drags on a shirt from the floor, his and hers indistinguishable piles of starched white fabric, slides it over her arms. But when he thinks she might rise, she leans into him instead, pulling his arm back about her shoulders, hers about his waist. A button on the cuff digs into his hipbone.


	28. Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'I think we've reached the end of all the manoeuvring.' Quatre's face goes long as he stares off over the creek, away from the base and Preventers and everything trapping them there. 'We're at the end,' he says again, and this time Toru hears the strain. 'I don't know entirely what I've done to Newtypes, but I've done it.'_

It's very early.

Toru wakes with the sheet kicked aside, summer heat finally abated with the lavender pre-dawn dim. He lays, bare, on a bed that's not familiar in a place that's no longer his home. He stares out the window, mind sleepy but clear, and thinks nothing at all.

He showers at length, something he rarely takes the time to do. Lets the hot water pound on the back of his neck, holds his breath with the spray like warm pinpricks on his eyes. He shaves with more than the usual care, trims ragged ends from his hair before brushing it out and wrapping it in a careful tail at his nape. He irons his shirt and the odd hinky crease in his jacket, chooses a less-used pair of loafers without scuff marks, affixes his badge to the inside pocket.

There's a few ambitious joggers out, when he sets out to walk across base, but by and large it's quiet. Toru walks with his hands in his pockets, taking his time. He has no idea what he's going to say when he gets there. He didn't sleep much, or well, but he feels oddly untroubled now. Or maybe more resigned to the inevitable. Something is going to happen, definitely, but it's beyond his control now. Very far beyond. It puts him in a position that's almost laughably normal. He's been under someone else's thumb his entire life-- it's the nature of children, specially children whose parents are the subjects of an interplanetary manhunt after turning traitor. Whether Sally did or didn't try to protect him out of love, she did keep him near, and from her he went to Preventers without ever so much as questioning his trajectory. He's probably never had a full twenty-four hours of control over himself, his future. Whatever happens now, he'll live with it.

He's strangely unsurprised, then, to find Sally and Quatre out walking together.

They make an unlikely pair. Quatre's the taller, but he would have known Sally by her walk, determined even at a slow pace. They're no more than a handspan apart, and Toru can tell, despite the distance, that they're deep in discussion, heads turned toward each other. Toru doesn't attempt to meet up with them. Instead, he takes a seat on a bench beside the path that will eventually bring them to him, wiping a damp smudge of dawn dew away with his palm, crossing his ankles on the grass. They don't see him immediately. He knows when Quatre senses him near, sees gold in the young sunlight as Quatre's head turns. But they don't hurry, and Toru feels no anxiety, not even any wondering. He waits for them.

The soft scuff of shoes on pavement arrives just before they do. Sally smiles at him, a small curve of her mouth that fades. She sits beside him on the bench. Quatre doesn't, inclining his head in a silent greeting, and keeps walking, alone.

Sally's hand on his knee recalls Toru's attention. He takes it in his, cradling her fingers.

'I quit,' he says.

Her lower lip disappears between her teeth, emerging bitten. She nods.

Toru finds his next breath shakes, just a bit. Some silly childish bit deep in his gut had apparently been hoping she'd fight him on that. But it doesn't feel earth-shattering. He doesn't shatter, giving up the only thing he's ever been certain of his entire life.

She takes his gun, when he hands it over. His badge. She turns it face-up, thumb rubbing over the lettering, the jagged-edged P and the crossed olive branches below it. 'Toru,' she murmurs, her voice thick.

'I'm not a Preventer now. I'm just a boy you know.' He breathes, and lets it out. 'So just tell me. If I have to run to save myself.'

'No.'

'Director Sobrinho.'

'He's retiring at the end of the fiscal year. The Newtype recovery programme is his last big operation.'

Toru absorbs that. The Director is leaving. It's been coming for a long time, and it makes sense, the headlong rush to make something happen with the Newtypes. Legacy building.

And building something his successor will make her own. Sally. It's really been her lead, everything from Rzhevsky onward. And that makes it her decision, really, to accept Toru's resignation. He's not leaving to get away from Sobrinho, he's leaving because she doesn't see a place for him in the Corps she wants to head.

It might hurt later. It will. But for the moment he just thinks-- he doesn't see a place here for himself, either.

'I know I have to leave the barracks. Um--' He hesitates, not entirely sure what he's asking for. 'I can move over to the Newtypes' hangar. Til we-- it's figured out. At least I can be useful there.'

'Quatre didn't--'

'Name me during his Newtype vision-quest. No. You know he didn't give you all the names he could have.' Toru shrugs. 'You still need me. To work with him. He'll never trust you.'

'No. I'd be very surprised if he did.' Sally pockets his badge with a sigh. 'He doesn't have leverage any more, you know. He may not have given us the location of every Newtype out there, and don't think that wasn't noticed, but he gave us more than we had, and we don't really need him to get them in custody. Even if he runs, this will go on without him. Without you.'

'You'll have a bunch of hostile prisoners. They started life as radicals and they'll keep on functioning that way, if you don't give them a good reason to integrate. That was the whole point of this. A place to belong.'

'And that's enough?'

He hears the real question in that, and answers simply. 'It would have been, for me.'

Her kiss to his cheek is gentle, and he allows it, though he doesn't offer one in return, and she doesn't stay to find out if he would. By the time she's on her feet, she's not Sally who raised him, Sally who looks at him with sad eyes, wondering if he'll be all right. She's Commander Po, and he's not her responsibility any more.

He takes his time catching up to Quatre. Not that Quatre had got all that far ahead, still in sight just around the curve of the track. When they fall into step, neither speaks immediately. They diverge by silent agreement, leaving the main path behind for the little footbridge over the creek, toward the small park, flowering now with approaching summer. Toru sheds his jacket, wrinkling it carelessly under an arm. After a moment, Quatre mimics him, even going so far as to pop the button of his collar and loosen his points..

Quatre's the one to break the quiet, speaking softly over the buzz of morning insects, eyes on a dragonfly that darts curiously about their heads. 'We should talk about your future,' he murmurs.

'We should ask Sun if I've even got one,' Toru jokes, but it falls a little flat, awkward. He clears his throat. 'What were you talking about? You and Sally.'

'Next steps, I reckon... I reckon.' Quatre tilts his head back to the sky, going bright blue limned with orange as the sun rises higher. 'Bargaining,' he says finally.

'I didn't really think you had any pieces left to move.'

'No. No, not very many at all. Only one, really.' Quatre tugs an envelope from his shirt pocket. He extends it toward Toru. Toru takes it, slices it open along the sealed edge. It's a thick packet of paper, a legal document. Unused to reading this kind of stuff, he skims uncertainly, trying to pick out important words. He trips over his own feet when he finds the number in bold typeface.

'That's-- that's an awful lot of--'

'I didn't expect I would need much of it here,' Quatre says. 'I took the liberty of moving most of it into a trust. There's also shares of Winner Enterprises. They've been earning well since the company moved into the tech market, though it's mostly still mining. Your active account should have already received the main transfer.'

'I can't.' He can't form comprehensible words, can't even think. Quatre turns to face him on the path, waiting him out. 'What the hell am I going to do with all your money? Is this all your money?'

'Nearly,' Quatre responds casually, as if he weren't talking about a number so large Toru finds it almost-- insane. It is insane, and here he'd thought he'd gone a bit immune to Quatre's ways. 'You'll receive the rest on my death, which I hope we both agree should be a ways off. This legally makes you my heir. But I wanted you to have enough liquidated to give you choices.'

'Your heir.' Toru shakes his head, to clear it. 'How did you even have time--'

'I had my lawyer start the process just after Koh-i-Noor, actually. You'll have to sign a few things. There's tabs on that document.' He points, helpfully, to the red bookmarks clipped to the pages. 'Don't spend it all in one place.'

'I don't know what to say.' He clenches numb hands on the paper, smooths it in embarrassment. 'I... Quatre...'

'I think we've reached the end of all the manoeuvring.' Quatre's face goes long as he stares off over the creek, away from the base and Preventers and everything trapping them there. 'We're at the end,' he says again, and this time Toru hears the strain. 'I don't know entirely what I've done to Newtypes, but I've done it. I don't know entirely what will--' He breathes out indistinctly. 'To me.'

'Who does?' Toru laughs a little wildly. 'If you'd asked me this morning I sure wouldn't have said I'd be a mil-- multi-millionnaire before breakfast.'

'I hope it makes up at least a little for the havoc I've wreaked in your life.'

'That wasn't your fault. Most of it.' His hand shakes as he folds the packet, crams it into a pocket. Then, suddenly sure, he demands, 'You're not doing this as some last-ditch-- kamikaze—'

'No,' Quatre assures him, but his eyes seem to say something different, sad and drifting away from Toru. 'But I didn't want you to feel you had to do something untoward, either. I've made my plays. I'll be here.'

Toru wets his lips. 'Me, too,' he says. 'I'll stay.'

'You don't have to.'

'I want to. I want to see this through.'

'For what purpose? To what end? Sun has seen it, Commander Po has agreed to a firm contract about it, our prison has already been built. You're eighteen, Toru. I know what it is to be eighteen and watching the bars lock in around me. When I made that choice it was in desperation. I don't want that for you.'

'And where the hell else would I go?' Quatre waves him off furiously, and Toru keeps after him, hurrying after him as he strides off across the footbridge. 'Koh-i-Noor? That's just another prison with a pretty view. And what about Sun? Did you write her a big cheque, too? Or did you think I'd grab her in secret and drive off into the sunset?'

'Yes. That's exactly what I want the two of you to do.'

That sets him blinking. 'It's not as easy for everyone else as it is for you,' he says, finding himself in a defencive pout that surely looks as silly as it feels. He has to uncross his arms, ashamed of the gesture. 'You told me once you'd follow me, if I stayed in Preventers long enough to change things. If you send me away I'll never be able to do that.'

'I'm afraid it's the only way you will, Toru. They're going to drum you out.'

'I quit.'

It's Quatre's turn to rock on a surprise, but he recovers more quickly than Toru. 'So much the better. You have no ties to them. Leave and find a good life to live.'

'I quit because I can't do anything about Preventers from the inside. Not now, at least. But that doesn't mean Preventers aren't changing. That Newtypes aren't changing a lot of things, and that I can't be part of the reason why. I'm a Peacecraft. And I want that to matter.' Quatre is already shaking his head, so Toru just keeps talking, overriding him with a raised voice. 'You think they can all just walk away the same after what they've seen? Dawes has been around long enough to know it wasn't always like this, it shouldn't be. Ricciardi just had to see you as a person, and he's got a whole new attitude. Cheko-- Micheko--' Here he falters. 'She'll have to live with knowing she chose for me. Maybe that won't sit all that easily. I can change things just by standing where they can see me.'

'And that's worth it? A maybe?'

'I don't-- I don't know.'

'Then take it from someone who's lived a lot of maybes.' Quatre takes him by the hands, pressing Toru's palms together between his own. 'I know it sounds like I'm telling you to surrender, and I'm proud it's against every instinct you have. If you stay here now, you may not get another chance to go on your own terms. Your Aunt Relena would put you up til you figure out where you want to go. I put the house in Andalusia in Sun's name. Have adventures. See the world. It's so much bigger than just Preventers, or even Peacecrafts and wars and Newtypes. That's the ending of my story. Just the beginning of yours.'

His throat is tight. 'Quatre.'

'Go. Don't wait.'

'You won't even-- Iva-- you need a Newtyke.'

'Iva and I are in this together, now. Trust us to figure it out.'

It's too much. His head is whirling. His gut is whirling, too, and he feels sort of sickly and faint and-- and-- He tries to speak, and can't. Quatre gives him a kiss not all that unlike the one Sally had, tender and letting him go. His hands linger just a moment longer, squeezing tight. 'Tell her I said good-bye,' he murmurs, choked as Toru is, and lets him go.

 

**

 

He's not at all surprised to find Sun packed. Packed for both of them. How she got into his barracks to get at his things he doesn't know. She looks specially fetching, her hair loose over one shoulder, long silky strands dark against the leather of the jacket he'd bought for her. She's wearing trousers, maybe the first time he's seen her. Scuffed boots for hard walking. Toru folds her close, holding her hard.

'I love you,' he says, spontaneously letting it leave his lips, but realising even as he does it's true. His throat is tight, so he makes himself smile, jagged. 'He told you?' he asks, easing away.

'Late last night.' Sun's fingers card his hair, settle on his shoulder. 'He said he'd tell you himself.'

'Just now.'

'Is this what you want?'

He bites the inside of his cheek, he inhales as deeply as he can, from his toes. 'Preventers are the only thing I've ever been sure about. I don't know. I don't-- hell. Maybe it's just that I haven't had time to even-- holy hell. Even think about it.'

Her thumb rests on his neck. 'We can come back. When you're ready.'

That she'd even offer it is like a weight off his chest. He can only nod.

He gets one more kiss, this time to his chin, the highest Sun can reach on him standing on her toes. When he picks up their bags and slings the straps over his shoulder, she stops him, and slips something into his pocket. The carved wooden horse. He covers it with his palm, a promise to keep it safe.

They walk to the kerb, and step out into the road to follow it. He points toward the curve that will take them to the gate, and they follow it together. 'I can ring for a cab,' he says, shifting the weight of their bags to get at his mobile phone. He manages to free it from an inside pocket, and taps it to a search field. 'Where are, wow. I have no idea where we're going.'

'Berlin?' Sun says. 'I've read about Berlin. Or Peru. Somewhere warm. We could hike the Amazon.'

'I think there's a lot more of it in Brasil than Peru.'

'Venice. Helsinki. Would you want to go back to the colonies? Or Shanghai.'

'I've kind of always wanted to go to Shanghai.' He finds a taxi company. I'll be doing a lot of this, he thinks, and hits the call button. Sun shades her eyes against the morning sun, and takes his hand in hers.

'Hi,' Toru answers the call centre who answers. 'Hi, yeah, we're at the Preventers base, Hanson Gate on Van Dyke. Headed to the air-- hang on.' He lowers the phone and shades the screen to check the incoming number buzzing against his hand. It's not one he knows. 'Hang on,' he repeats to the call centre, and takes the incoming. 'Toru C-- Peacecraft.'

_'I can't get him on the phone.'_

'What? Who is this?' Toru checks the number again. The country code is-- France-- 'Barton.'

_'I can't get him on the phone. He's there, right? He came back with you?'_

'Uh, yeah. He did.' Toru slows to a stop, and Sun swings to face him. 'He may not, um, be by a phone.'

_'But he's okay.'_

'Yeah.' Toru tilts a stare up at a cloud passing overhead, covering him with shadow. 'Barton, I'm not sure he'd want me to tell you anything about it, even if I could.'

_'Do what you do and put me on the fucking phone with him, kid.'_

Sun touches his wrist. 'We should go. The longer you stay, the more time they'll have to think of reasons to delay you.'

Yeah. Yeah. The minute Sally puts his resignation through, people will start thinking of questions. He should debrief, there's a thousand documents to sign, clearances that need to be revoked, passwords and protocols to turn in. He may be a junior agent but he's a junior agent walking out the back door with a lot of sensitive information, and if he lets them catch up with him, it's going to be more than a matter of hours. It might be more than days, even, and if he has to sit on his hands for weeks they'll have time to think of other ways to contain him. Maybe even lock him up with the other Newtypes, with as much free will as Iva has this very moment.

_'Craft.'_

'I need to chase him down. I don't know where he is.'

_'Please.'_

The way that comes out makes it very clear Barton is not used to saying the word. Toru clenches his jaw. 'I'm on my way out of here, Trowa.'

The silence goes on long enough that he actually checks whether Barton's hung up on him. Call's still going. Toru puts the phone back to his ear.

 _'It's Tuesday,'_ Barton whispers.

'Yes,' Toru says uncertainly, and then he understands. He closes his eyes as the cloud overhead blocks out all the light. It's going to rain today.

'Hold on,' he tells Barton, and puts the call on hold. Sun is looking away, her brows pulled down in an unhappy frown. 'I'll catch up,' Toru tells her.

'Will you?' she asks, twitching something that is not a smile, though she's trying.

'Won't I? You probably know better than me.'

'Not this time.' Her second attempt is better, brighter, though it doesn't quite warm her eyes. She takes her bag, and doesn't reach for his, which says more than her words that she doesn't believe him. Toru scratches at the back of his head, wishing he didn't feel he was letting her down.

'At least give me a hint what's coming?' he wheedles. 'I could use a roadmap.'

'I don't know.' He recognises helplessness in her, now, the unhappy blue of her eyes. 'You and Quatre both. If I knew, I'd tell you. Whatever it is, it looks like you'll be doing it together.'

'I will catch up. It's a promise, not a prediction.' He brings her close one more time. He takes her sunglasses off her head and slips them gently over her small ears. 'You look like a badass,' he says. 'Don't scare anyone. That's my job.'

'Toru,' she calls, just before he's out of earshot. He turns back, and she's standing where he left her, holding her bag to her chest.

'Zhujiajiao,' he shouts at her. 'It's the Venice of Shanghai.'

She lifts a hand good-bye. He holds his aloft til she turns her back on him, and it takes a lot of willpower not to watch her go. Not to go running after her.

So instead he sprints in the opposite direction.

The park is empty as he crosses through it. The mess is teeming with the breakfast rush, so Quatre won't be there. But Toru doesn't stop to check. He knows where to go. The hangar converted for Newtypes. If Quatre's going to make a stand on what he's done, he's going to be there with Iva, figuring out how to make it work.

His guess is right. When he goes bursting through the door into the rec room, he finds them there. A nurse hovers by the back door, observing everything over the rim of a case reader. Iva is curled in a tight ball on a chair, lank hair scraped into a fist as she stares blankly at the windowless wall. Her baby in her arms is busily drinking a bottle down, but she's not really minding the child. Quatre sits on the floor as far from her as he can get, but well within his range for Newtypes. Iva's brow is creased in worry. Quatre's is strained and sweaty, but he's toughing it out. The weight of all the tension is palpable.

Suddenly aware of Toru's presence, Quatre's head turns sharply toward him. His eyes go wide. 'I thought you'd gone,' he begins, but trails off. The phone in Toru's hand is still a live call. Quatre looks at it, and even at a distance Toru can tell he pales. Of course he'd know who it is.

'It's Tuesday,' Toru says.

'Tuesday?'

'He always calls you on Tuesdays.'

It's one of the first things he learnt about Barton. Barton drove Quatre to St John's and left him there. Then spent a couple of decades expiating the guilt with weekly calls to a man he wouldn't see face to face. If you can't have love, you can at least keep the wound open, even when you go home to your partner in Paris and pretend.

Quatre's drawn face is awful. Frozen, except for the eyes. He swallows, convulsively.

Where it might have gone from there, Toru doesn't know. He starts to speak, but never forms words. Iva rises from her chair. It's an automatic thing, an instinct wary of trouble-- Toru puts his hand to a gun he's no longer wearing, and the nurse takes a step closer. But Iva only rises from her chair, and crosses the room. She crouches beside Quatre. She passes the baby, catching Quatre's hand to put it in a proper supportive position under Beatriz's small head. She slumps to the wall beside him, stroking her daughter's thick dark hair as Quatre fumbles the bottle.

Toru takes his other side, dropping down slowly til his rump hits the concrete. Someone's found little booties for Beatriz, striped yellow and pink. Toru jiggles her dangling toes, feels them curl against his finger.

'Do you want to talk to him?' Toru asks quietly. 'He's waiting.'

Wet escapes Quatre's eyes as they squeeze shut. It tracks down his cheek, disappears under the line of his jaw. He shakes his head, quickly. Not at all confidently. And immediately claps his hand to his mouth, a slight edge of hysteria in the way he physically holds himself in check. Toru can feel him shaking.

Toru takes the call off hold. 'I'm sorry,' he says. 'He's not available.'

There's a pause on Barton's end. Toru almost repeats it, in case Barton was busy doing something else. Barton beats him to it. _'I just want to know he's okay.'_

'He's not available,' Toru says steadily.

_'Then a number where I can reach him.'_

'I'm sorry, I don't have one.' He keeps going, talking over Barton's next attempt. 'Have a good day, Mr Barton,' he says, 'you and Mr MacLeod.' He hangs up without waiting for a response. He tickles the bottom of Beatriz's little foot, til she giggles, her chubby face folding into a toothless grin.

'That was the right choice,' Toru tells Quatre.

'He won't ring again.'

'You don't know that.'

'I do. I wouldn't.'

'Nothing's forever.' Nothing but this. Giving up a relationship he hasn't really had, a relationship that's been the only thing he really did have. No going back, not now. Iva meets Toru's eyes over Quatre's head. She can't understand, not really, but maybe the act of sacrifice is just too familiar to Newtypes. You make one choice, one choice that defines who you're going to be for the rest of your life, and you're never allowed anything else ever again.

Toru wipes his nose on his sleeve. Reaches over and wipes the streak of tears from Quatre's cheek, too. He puts his arm about Quatre's shoulders. Iva strokes her daughter's hair, but her arm rests on Quatre's knee.

The buzz of his phone interrupts the tentative peace. Thinking it's Barton, Toru almost just silences it and puts it away, but habit makes him check the number. He clears his throat, and accepts the call. 'Dawes,' he greets his fellow-- his former colleague.

_'Craft, we need you at the gate.'_

Shit. Sun. She didn't get away, after all. He'd thought they'd been moving fast enough. Toru pulls away from the Newtypes, sitting up straight. 'Who detained her? I'm sure it's just, um, a misunderstanding.'

_'Her? Them. We've got seven.'_

'Seven? Seven who?'

 _'Newtypes, Craft,'_ Dawes tells him impatiently. _'Seven Newtypes. We need Winner. Get him over here.'_

'I'm not an--' He stops just before admitting he's not an agent any more. Seven Newtypes. He doesn't know what it means, but he has a guess how Preventers will react. They'll take it as a threat. A frontal assault. 'On our way,' he says, signing off and pushing to his feet. 'I need both of you,' he tells Iva and Quatre. 'There's a troop of Newtypes at the gate. I don't know if they're hostile or friendlies, but--'

Quatre is already moving. Iva passes the baby to the nurse, who looks a bit alarmed to be losing all her charges. Toru doesn't bother with an explanation. 'Faster is better,' he encourages them, shooing them toward the door with all possible haste.

Sun isn't one of the Newtypes at the gate-- that's the first thing Toru scans for, and he hopes it means she made it out the way she intended. Several armed Preventers have spread in a wide half-circle blocking the road, the gate guards ranging behind to lock down the car lanes. There's an abandoned vehicle, a rather decrepit estate car with all the doors opened, and its passengers are standing, not especially calmly, in the middle of all that chaos.

There was a time when watching a Newtype feel the Flash would have fascinated. Even expecting it, it's interesting to compare Quatre and Iva, the way it stops both of them in their tracks, but it's stronger in Quatre, and he also recovers faster from it. Just in time to gag, bending over his knees with a wobbly sway.

'Can you handle all the people?' Toru asks, taking him by the shoulders and reaching for a well of calm he's not entirely sure he has. He pushes everything he's got at Quatre.

'Ow,' Quatre gasps.

'Sorry.'

'No apologies.' Quatre wipes his forehead with a shaky hand. 'At the ready. One of them is-- one of them is--'

'What?'

'Ishaq.' Quatre keeps a tight grip on him, as Toru whirls. It is. Ishaq Khosa, who's stepping out form the crowd of Newtypes with eyes locked on them, too.

'Dawes.' Toru latches onto a face he knows, someone not openly aiming a weapon. 'Situation?'

To his credit, Dawes appears to have been doing what Toru's attempting to do now, putting himself personally between one kind of disaster and a worse one. 'Waiting for you,' Dawes tells him. His phone beeps for his attention, and he glances, distracted. 'Protocol for Newtype registration never considered walk-ins.'

'Walk-ins?' Toru risks turning his back on all the guns and faces the Newtypes. 'They said they're here for-- for the Newtype programme?'

'Been trying to reach Commander Po,' Dawes says. 'Ricciardi's on his way, Walker too. We need some proof of identity here, and we need you lot to back the fuck down,' he adds loudly, glaring at the agents who are not at all subtly aiming at torsos. 'Khosa there says they came for you and Winner.'

The Newtypes with Khosa are all unknown to Toru. Two women, one about Toru's age, one closer to Dawes'. Four men, a black man with shoulder-length locks and a shortened forearm ending in a stub, a pair of white men in their thirties, one brunette and one a pale, freckled ginger, and-- and Toru knows the youngest, the boy. The boy was at Koh-i-Noor. Puneet Sharma, the one with the motorbike.

Koh-i-Noor. Oh, no. 'No,' Toru says.

'Toru,' Quatre says, almost dazed. 'Toru, they're here for us.'

'For us?'

'You told a certain lady of our acquaintance that you were trying to find the other Newtypes. To bring them together.' Ishaq nods back at the other Newtypes. 'We thought we'd save you a trip.'

'Iva?' One of the women leaves the protection of their crowd, taking a few uneasy steps toward Preventers. 'Is that you? Iva?'

'Sinikka?' Iva gives herself a shake all over. 'You were at... you were at Libra.'

'You remember.' The woman hesitates in the face of all the armed Preventers. 'The others?' she calls across the distance. 'Elinor? Cole and Martinez?'

'Cole.' Iva looks dazed, but come alive for the first time since Toru's known her, looking about her with keener eyes, blinking rapidly. 'Cole... he died. Dead at Libra. Elinor...'

The reunion is interrupted by Ricciardi and Micheko arriving, speeding up in a Twizy and jumping out ready to intervene. Dawes must have conveyed plenty of information when he called for them, because Micheko starts barking out orders from Po, and Ricciardi joins them as a human barrier between the Newtypes and the bullets, grim-faced only til he looks at Winner, and solemnly winks.

Toru can't help it. He tries to hold it in, but it's too absurd. It's too absurd. He starts to laugh. Dawes turns to look, and Micheko glares at him, irked by all the mystery, and Iva is staring at him like he's grown another head, but Quatre's lips quirk, and then he's smiling too, eyes sheened again, but this time with something a little bit like joy.

'Well met,' he tells Ishaq, and then all the Newtypes. 'You're all-- you're all very well met indeed.' Ishaq even offers a hand, and Quatre gives a ragged laugh of his own as he takes it. 'Welcome, brothers and sisters.'

 

'I see much has changed for you,' Ishaq observes quietly.

Toru accepts a visitor badge from Dawes, who is at least sorry for the mutual embarrassment of it. 'It's a little new,' Toru understates, finding a shirt pocket to affix the pin.

'But you're all right?'

He doesn't know how to answer that, not yet. He shrugs it off. 'There's paperwork,' he says. 'Welcome back to bureaucracy.'

'All this, for Newtypes?' the woman at Iva's side asks. Everyone stares around, curiousity and-- for the older ones, who have seen more of the ugly side of the world-- a little dread. But the armed guards left them at the gate, and someone's thought to bring out bottled water and fruit, and the nurse has Iva's daughter playing on a mat with her bright giggles ringing out over all of it, and Toru thinks that bad as it could have been, it's not.

He pours tea for Quatre, and brings it to where he's sitting alone across the rec room, Ishaq following. He drops into a crouch before his friend, checking him for signs of distress. It's not as bad a crowd as before, but it's still far more people than he can handle easily. 'It's going to be a full house,' Toru says. 'I don't think all the beds they ordered are in yet. We might have some cots tonight.'

'It's perfect.' Despite the pounding rock pouring from his big headphones, the squint of a headache, Quatre won't be budged, and Toru has stopped trying. 'It's perfect,' Quatre says again, shaking his head in wonder.

'I would never have imagined all this when I was here before,' Ishaq says. 

'It doesn't really compare to Koh-i-Noor,' Toru replies, pitching his voice low. 'Are they all from there? I don't remember seeing all of them.'

'Not all. I knew Anders in White Fang, and he knew Rubbo. Puneet, him you met at Koh-i-Noor; he brought in Jiao Chen. We found Jemmy along the way, just past Corsica.'

'Jemmy-- You mean Jem Evans? She was one of your finds, Quatre, remember.'

'I thought we might all be,' Ishaq says. 'When you told Sylvia you were looking for Newtypes, I assumed you must have found a way to adapt Ivan Rzevsky's ability to locate us.'

'Just so,' Quatre agrees. 'But you know I can't see past the shield at Koh-i-Noor. Everyone there is safe.'

Toru figures out why that reassurance is needed when Ishaq blows out a slow breath of relief. 'Your family,' he guesses. 'So you did manage to get them there.'

Ishaq rotates a glass of water in his hands, lips compressed. 'After you left us, I contacted my sister. Nadia. She was with me in White Fang. We became Newtypes together... You were right, Toru, in guessing I was trying to keep her away from Preventers. I wanted her safe. She can't care for herself, and at Koh-i-Noor she'll have the help she needs.'

'But if you were already there with her, why come here at all?'

'Because of you,' Quatre says.

'Me?'

Ishaq smiles at that. 'You,' he confirms. 'You did a great thing, Toru, leaving Koh-i-Noor in peace. We both know Preventers were going to keep looking for Newtypes. Seeing this place, that's clearer than ever. But when you told Sylvia you were doing this, you and Quatre, I thought-- I thought maybe it was time to be a part of something again. All of us. Koh-i-Noor is wonderful, but it's not the only way.'

'Who'd've thunk it.' Micheko is working on the registration process with the one Ishaq called Anders, but she keeps sneaking looks at Toru. He thinks at him. She knows, by now, that he's quit. They all know. He's just another Newtype now, so far as Preventers are concerned, and he knows one of those registration packets she's prepping is going to be for him. His chance to run is probably gone. For the foreseeable future. No-one seems to have noticed yet, with all the newcomers, that Sun isn't with them. She'll be far away by now, Toru hopes. On a bus, on a train. Someday he may escape to go after her. He hopes. He'd like to see the world, he realises, and he'd like to see it with her, someone fresh and unburnt by all this.

But not yet. And, he realises too, that's okay. That's good. Because he wants to see this through.

'I think I know why Sun didn't see anything about you,' he says.

Quatre catches his eyes, distracted. 'What? You mean her ability?'

'You knew she thought you would die. Because she couldn't see anything about you. But I think I know why she couldn't see your future.'

Quatre's chin tilts up, considering him. Reading him, maybe-- or maybe choosing not to. Ishaq watches, and his eyes go from Quatre to Toru, brows raised.

'Newtykes,' Toru says. 'Heero said it, before. Newtykes affect your abilities. It's not just that we make things easier, we change how they work.' He hears the iPod change over to a new album, and takes it from Quatre to switch to the meditation music Quatre refuses to select without prompting. Quatre begins to smile, and Toru ignores it. 'Sun, Heero's daughter,' he says, for Ishaq's benefit. 'She's clairvoyant. She should have been able to see what was going to happen to Quatre, but she couldn't.'

'But then her ability wasn't working,' Ishaq disagrees, 'not Quatre's.'

'Not quite what I mean. Newtykes change things. It's not just that you were doing the unexpected thing, running off to Koh-i-Noor or even coming back here to start this. She should have been able to see that. I think the Newtykes are changing something at an even more fundamental level.'

'Changing us,' Quatre says. 'Changing Newtypes.'

'Changing your future. You were out there running around, doing things that weren't even possible before. Leaving St John's, tracking down Ivan Rzhevsky. Finding Heero, finding Koh-i-Noor. Coming back here to make this place. That's why Sun couldn't see anything about you. Newtypes and Newtykes, together, that's what makes it change. It's all going to be different now. A whole new destiny.' Toru finds the album he wants, Winds and Rains, and moves it into the 'Favourites' file beside Black Sabbath, Turtians, and Got Dem Boyz. When he looks up, Quatre's expression catches him off guard. 'What?'

'Just having a bit of an idea.'

'Okay,' Toru begins, but lets it trail off when he feels a presence at his back. He stands. 'Agent Walker.'

'Toru.' Micheko hands readers to both Quatre and Ishaq, with awkward but courteous nods to each. She holds onto the third long enough that Toru takes the decision out of her hands, and the reader, too. His name is already filled out. Thorulf Peacecraft.

'Commander Po acts fast,' he says. 'I only resigned four hours ago.'

Micheko clears her throat. 'I can walk you all through the questions. Any immediate medical needs would be most important. We want to be sure you're well cared for.'

Quatre pries the stylus from its wedge and begins to write. 'I do have one request, dear,' he says. 'This is hungry work. Perhaps you could contact someone for an early luncheon?'

'Oh. Yes, I can do that.' Micheko takes a step back, then returns. 'Any, any requests?'

'Cake,' Toru says. He liberates his own stylus, and leans back against the wall as he scrolls through the fields waiting for all his private data. It's actually quite a lot shorter than his agent application had been. 'We've got a lot to celebrate.'

There's a moment where she's going to spill everything-- apologies, accusations, love. He sees it in her face. He looks down before she can, heart beating faster. He doesn't give her the chance. It's not long before she takes the hint. This time, her feet turn away, shiny shoes rapping out on the concrete. Away from them.

Quatre squeezes his shoulder, one brief touch of sympathy. 'Do you know,' he says, 'I think I'd like to meet them all. Come with me?'

Toru dredges up an honest smile. 'Yeah,' he says. 'I'd like to.'


	29. Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'No. I'm ready.' It slips out of his mouth, but it's suddenly true. He bites his lower lip til it hurts, but it doesn't change the growing excitement in his belly. He laughs aloud. 'Yeah. I'm, um, I'm ready.'_   
> 

'I thought we were dressing for today's event?'

Toru brushes crumpet crumbs from his tee shirt, as Quatre's eyes, amused, follow his hand. 'Sorry,' Toru says. 'I guess I forgot. I just, you know, it's sort of hit me that I wore a suit every day for two years. It's kind of nice to ditch it.'

'I do understand,' Quatre relents. 'But nonetheless you don't want to go in with no advantage.' He shucks his coat and holds it out. 'Go on. It's chic. All the young ones dress like this, these days.'

'Oh, the young ones, eh.' Quatre's suit coat fits him well enough, though the cuffs are just a wee bit short. It smells like nice cologne. And looks faintly ridiculous over his grey Preventers tee and denims, but maybe less ridiculous than attending a high-level meeting looking like he wandered in off the street. He fluffs his loose hair, and digs in his pocket for an elastic. He makes a tail at the nape of his neck and wraps it off. 'I'm not exactly trying to impress anyone anymore,' he says.

'There are different kinds of impressions to make. Wait til we've got our permission to start blowing them off.' Quatre's gaze roves to the door, and Toru turns, fully expecting someone to walk through it, based on that clue. He's right. It opens a moment later, and Ishaq Khosa enters the lobby, escorted by Dawes. Toru drums up a smile, determined to at least start the morning on good terms. Dawes returns a solemn nod and a rather more ambivalent hunch of one shoulder. It's not exactly the ease of colleagues on good terms, but there's nothing sinister in it.

'Give them time,' Quatre murmurs.

'You tell me whether that works, huh.'

'It will. They'll still be seeing you every day. Working with you. It won't take as long as you fear.' Their quiet conversation comes to an end as Dawes and Ishaq join them. Dawes stays just long enough to nod hello to them, a mumble that is polite enough to pass muster. Ishaq has dark circles under his eyes, evidence of a sleepless night, but his smile is genuine.

'Good morning,' he says. 'You two look dapper.'

'You too. Guess you packed with meetings like this in mind.' Toru starts toward the carafe, but Ishaq waves him off, pouring hot water into a cup and dunking a tea bag. 'Milk and sugar?' Ishaq asks Quatre.

'For me?' Their fingers brush as Ishaq hands him the cup and saucer. It's no easy thing for either man, but Toru knows it's deliberate when Ishaq sets his shoulders after. 'Thank you,' Quatre says, subdued but earnest. 'You're kind, my friend.'

'Getting used to hearing that word.' Ishaq pours a second cup for himself. 'I feel like there's a joke in this. Seven Newtypes walk into Preventers HQ...'

'Just two, today.'

'Three. So far as Preventers know, you're one of us.' Quatre regards him over the brim of his tea. 'We've thus far avoided the question of Newtykes.'

'Newtykes?' Ishaq asks curiously.

'Children of Newtypes,' Toru explains, finding himself faintly embarrassed applying such a cute term to something suddenly quite serious. 'I kind of-- I just wanted something to call it.'

'Like Puneet,' Ishaq nods. 'His mother, he thinks. All he really knows of her is that she was part of the Resistance, a cell in India.'

'If we share one characteristic, it would appear to be ignorance about our parents,' Toru says. 'Even Sun. They may have meant well, keeping her in the dark, but...' Qutare's hand rests on his elbow. Toru pulls in a short breath, and shrugs. 'I don't think we should really bring it up,' he decides. 'If we expose Newtykes now, with everyone feeling punchy, there's no telling where it will end. We can afford to wait til Po's the Director and we have a sense where the wind will blow.'

Dawes is returning, this time with his partner Ricciardi. Ricciardi, like Quatre, is just in shirtsleeves, though the odd-shaped bunch around his middle speaks to fresh bandages on his wound. Ricciardi snaps a finger through Quatre's braces, and Quatre releases a little huff that doesn't sound all that bothered by the tease.

'Your folk are settling in,' Ricciardi says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels.

'I've heard they're going to let us have a garden plot,' Ishaq contributes, a bit stilted, but making the effort. 'It's almost a home.'

'Quatre's good at tomatoes,' Toru says, remembering his last trip to St John's. Quatre gives him a little eyeroll, and Toru grins at him.

'I've been thinking,' Ishaq begins, but the sudden silence interrupts him.

'I think this is rather more serious than just the Director,' Quatre murmurs. 'It's raining curtains out there. They came a long way in poor weather.'

Definitely more serious. That's the Prime Minister of Belgium. The Deputy Secretary General of the Earth Sphere United Nations Council, and the Chairman of the Defence Committee. 'Who's the guy in the ascot?' Toru whispers to Dawes.

'Science and Technology,' Ricciardi answers. When his partner raises a brow, Ricciardi scowls. 'I watch the news, you know.'

Even Toru can break a grin for that.

'Right, you lot,' Dawes says. 'I think we're being summoned. Last call on the danish.'

'Quatre?' Ishaq offers a plate of croissant and conserve. 'I'll ask them about accommodations. They know that's too many people. Let me see what I can do.'

Ricciardi butters a crumpet of his own, taking a large bite and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 'He's making himself useful,' he notes.

'Anxiety manifests differently for all of us,' Quatre replies. 'He's come a long way on hope. On faith.'

'In you.' Ricciardi stuffs in another bite. 'You're probably good for it.'

'Am I,' Quatre says absently, watching Ishaq's approach. Sally's deputy Bhudraja turns courteously to address him, and their discussion, though unheard from across the large lobby, seems to go well enough. There's a lot of nodding, from across the carefully maintained distrance between the two men.

'He's a little pretty for you,' Ricciardi says.

'Hm?' Quatre raises a brow. 'Your pardon?'

'Khosa. He's kind of a pretty boy.' Ricciardi finishes his breakfast and brushes his hands with a quick swipe. 'You seem like the type who goes in for rough. Manly.'

'Jeez,' Toru complains.

Quatre finally turns his attention to Ricciardi. He is squinting, and Toru doesn't know if that's an expression of pique or if he's reading the agent. 'Do I,' he says.

'Yeah.' Ricciardi shoots him a sidelong glance. They stare each other down.

Quatre breaks first. His pursed lips tug into a smile, quickly smothered. But when he laughs, it's full-throated, and Ricciardi grins at him.

'Weird,' Toru mutters, to absolutely no-one but himself.

Whatever bargain Ishaq makes with Bhudraja, it results in returning them to pretty much where they started-- the Newtypes alone in one space, and everyone else somewhere else. Dawes and Ricciardi escort them to a rec room in the basement, and leave them there alone. Quatre gets the couch along the wall, his earbuds dangling about his shoulders playing tinny strings of Vivaldi. He sits with his ankles crossed, hands posed on his knee, the picture of aplomb, and he addresses himself solely to the large video screen displaying the main conference room, where _everyone else_ seems to encompass, through the magic of technology and the miracle of bureaucracy, some thirty people each far more important than anyone Toru's ever met before. They've rated the Vice President of the ESUN. An awful lot of staffers. Preventers have become the least important cog in this machine. 

_Probably not good, overall,_ he thinks at Quatre. Quatre tilts his head, but doesn't answer.

But if it's not good, it's the kind of slow-blooming storm cloud that takes its time building up to the thunder. There's introductions, diplomatic exchanges of pleasantries, a slide show that's at least twenty minutes long with excessive detail about the war, the origins of Newtypes, the highlights of their case against Rzhevsky, and a rather blunt synopsis of Preventers' interactions with first Quatre and then Ishaq. Director Sobrinho ends the briefing with Iva and her daughter, and calls them Preventers' first success in the new programme.

 _'Which brings us to today's discussion,'_ Sobrinho states then. _'Mr Winner. Is it fair to call you the leader?'_

Quatre's mouth curves up. 'The leader?' he repeats. 'No. I don't think that's a terribly accurate characterisation.' Before the pause drags on too long, he supplies an alternative. 'I've spoken with every Newtype currently under Preventers' hospitality. It's agreed that any proposals or questions raised here today will be relayed, by me, to the group for adjudication.'

That raises some eyebrows-- primarily, Toru thinks, because there's no inherent promise in there agree with any demands. Quatre's playing his games again. It's a lot more fun to watch now that Toru's only skin in the game is firmly on one team.

The Chairman of the Defence Committee recovers first. _'Mr Winner,'_ he says, _'I'd like to begin with the obvious. In your efforts to locate the remaining living Newtypes, you didn't name anyone in Preventers.'_

Quatre nods slowly. 'That is correct.'

_'Then is it also correct that the two men with you today are the only Newtypes to ever infiltrate Preventers?'_

'To be hired on,' Quatre corrects, as Toru steels himself to an accusation he'd known would be raised sooner than later. Ishaq is stony-faced, though his hands twist tight between his knees, tense. 'And the answer to that is that I don't know. I'm under the impression some of the information from Ivan Rzhevsky's case remains classified, and I was never privy to the full list of people he killed. I don't know but that some may have been Preventers.'

 _'Is there a way to identify Newtypes infiltrating Preventers other than this--'_ He looks at his notes. _'This flash.'_

'The Flash is the primary means we have of identifying each other. It's possible there may be some Newtype whose ability would do it, but I'm unaware of that at this time.'

Toru would give a lot to just open his mouth and have perfectly arranged weasel words fall out. Quatre sounds totally at his ease, as if he hadn't just circumvented the entire issue of Newtykes and the glow while effortlessly covering his ass.

Sally, seated at Sobrinho's right hand, brings it around to the point. She says, _'We'd like you to undertake a walk-through of all our staff offices. Starting with senior leadership.'_

Ishaq looks quickly at Quatre. Quatre looks at his hands. It's a long time waiting on his answer, and Toru finds himself holding his breath.

 _It's logical,_ he says silently, and sees a flicker of Quatre's eyelashes. _And it's not necessarily bad. They're asking us, rather than trying to do it on their own._

'What would you do with them,' Quatre asks then. 'If we did identify someone.'

 _'Remove them from active duty,'_ Sally answers promptly. _'I'll be frank. There's a chance, a slim chance, that one day we'll see integration and it will be seamless and peaceful and productive. We're not there yet. I'm not saying that a Newtype in Preventers' ranks is automatically a vulnerability, but it is an unknown quantity. And organisations like Preventers don't deal in unknowns.'_

'No, you don't.' Quatre rubs his fingernails repeatedly with his thumb, back and forth. His eyes stay low. 'I'll take it back to the others. But... from a personal standpoint... I agree. I would go.'

That surprises Toru. Not so much that Quatre would do it, because the hard part of that decision was made back at Koh-i-Noor, when Quatre formulated his plan to start locating Newtypes with Preventers' cooperation. But that he'd agree without putting conditions on it. Agree without even discussing it with Toru and Ishaq, who know better than anyone else that if there's a Newtype hiding in Preventers, it's probably innocent.

Ah. He figures it out, then. If it's Quatre, he'll only find the Newtypes. Assuming there are any-- Ishaq was the one who thought they wouldn't make it on the inside for long, and between Rzhevsky's body count and Koh-i-Noor, there can't be many Newtypes left anyway. But there will be Newtykes. And Quatre won't know who they are. He nods his encouragement, his agreement, and Quatre's eyes track the subtle bob of his head. The set of his shoulders eases, just a bit.

 _'Speaking then of vulnerabilities,'_ Sobrinho adds. _'Ms Ohayashi. Any notion where she's got to?'_

Playing meekly along is over. Toru knows what Quatre's going to say even before he raises his head. 'I suppose it's only fair to state from the outset that I don't know where the young lady is, nor do I have any plans to locate her for you.'

The mood of cautious hope for cooperation vanishes. The lights flicker-- the lights actually flicker, like a third rate drama, although it's just the storm outside threatening the electric, however freakishly apt the timing. Toru feels a queasy urge to giggle like a schoolboy, and squirms on his seat. He wishes he'd worn that suit after all. Or that he's not stuck sitting on the leather pouffe with his knees crammed up into his chest.

The Vice President answers that one, folding her hands on her desk and speaking directly into the camera with the ease of someone used to staring down obstruction. _'Mr Winner,'_ she says, _'I believe by the terms of your own contract, you've already agreed to do exactly that.'_

'My interpretation is different,' Quatre responds with an inclined head. 'Section Six, subsection E, paragraph four.'

There's a long pause at that. Toru can tell when they've been put on mute in the conference room across the hall, because the crowd in there falls into an intense, silent discussion with several urgent hand gestures.

Sally is the one who uploads the contract, bringing it up on screen. _'Finding your reference, Mr Winner,'_ she says, scrolling it rapidly. _'Paragraph four?'_

'Yes,' Quatre says. 'Wherein we agreed that Newtypes may seek medical attention for reasons unspecified.'

_'Yes. I'm not seeing the connection to Ms Ohayashi's disappearance.'_

'She has not disappeared,' Quatre says. 'She's seeking medical attention. She is not required to clear that through Preventers, nor to report any personal medical information to you. And I believe the Private Medical Data Act would prevent a doctor from providing that information to a third party even under subpoena. She may be awhile, I should expect, depending on the issue.'

Judging by the expressions, there's a few people who'd like to murder Quatre, right about now. Sobrinho hits the mute again. Probably explaining just how he managed to miss that one when they were approving the contract.

Toru missed it, too. He shifts awkwardly on his seat. _I thought that was just about the serum. You were experimenting, before you realised Preventers already had it._

Quatre spreads his hands. 'The future is never set,' he says, quietly enough that the conference pod won't pick him up. 'And most paths go in more than one direction.'

_Meaning you left yourself a loophole and figured out how to repurpose it for Sun. Don't get all cryptic just to sound smarter._

Quatre grins at him. 'Spoilsport.'

'Are you two talking?' Ishaq asks curiously, if in a cautious near-whisper.

Toru impishly answers in silence, speaking to him mind-to-mind. _I'd say I'll explain later, but this is pretty much it._

He enjoys Ishaq's blinking surprise.

The other room return them to full sound with the announcement, _'Nonetheless, Mr Winner, we'll keep a Bolo on Ms Ohayashi.'_

Quatre returns his attention to the screen. 'As you like.'

It's the Science and Technology bloke in the silly ascot who asks the next one, leaning in as if he's been holding back as long as possible and can't contain it any more. _'Mr Winner, Mr Khosa, Agent-- Mister Craft,'_ he begins.

'Peacecraft,' Winner corrects.

There's a little trip of a hesitation. Toru sort of feels like giggling again, and thinks he probably shouldn't have had that extra cup of coffee. It's surely bad form to go nutter at a meeting with this many people not kindly disposed toward his fate. At the very least, it's not a good argument toward his freedom on personal recognisance.

 _'Mr Peacecraft,'_ Science and Technology repeats. _'Please, I'd like to review these intake forms for the Newtypes who've just arrived at this base. Fascinating data.'_

'So glad to provide it.'

Sarcasm sails over at least half the people at that table in the other room. The rest look irritated. Toru covers his lower face with a hand, pretending to cough.

 _'Yes,'_ Science says uncertainly. _'Uh... Mr Khosa, perhaps you could help me fill in some gaps. I'm very curious about the side effects of Newtype abilities. They don't seem to be universally a direct result of the actual talent.'_

 _'Preventers have made an effort to anticipate any difficulties,'_ Sally fills in, aiming that at the frowning Vice President. _'Iva Szabados in particular has needs that will require a great deal of supervision. We've reached out to a psychiatrist who's worked with Preventers before. We'd like to do a fuller evaluation.'_

Quatre almost speaks, then rests a finger against his lips. When he does finally respond, it's in a soft, level tone. 'In anticipation of what operation,' he says, not a question.

The Defence Chairman answers that one. _'In anticipation that you don't leave a weapon unlearned when you might need it one day,'_ he says bluntly.

Quatre's exhale suggests steely control. 'I think Iva needs some time settling in. Perhaps we can discuss weaponisation at greater length, sir. Along with the data from our registration.'

 _'We appreciate your cooperation,'_ Sally tells him gravely.

'Quite,' Quatre says.

 

**

 

He knows better-- truly, he does-- but it just sort of happens, and he doesn't honestly do much to stop it doing.

Micheko rolls to face him, stretching her arms over him, laying her head on his chest. Her cheek is warm against his heartbeat. Her hair is luxuriously soft, slipping through his fingers as he makes long strokes through it. Her skin is even softer, her bare back curving under his palm in one smooth round all the way to her buttocks. She raises herself enough to kiss him, tugging at his lower lip with her teeth, and for all he spent himself only minutes ago he feels the same urge stirring him, a tingle down his spine and fire in his groin. Her fondling fingers encourage him. He returns her caresses, her breast, her belly, slipping his forefinger through the damp hair at her vee to the tune of her soft and satisfied groan.

She straddles his lap, and he rests his hands on her thighs, watching curiously as she brushes her hair back, mops perspiration from her brow with a swipe of her arm. 'Your room is small,' she says.

'They're all the same size.' He pulls at his limp pillow, spilled half from his bed, til it sits comfortably under his shoulders. 'At least I'm not sharing, here.'

'I don't see why you couldn't stay in the barracks. Mr Winner's going to be.'

'Temporarily,' Toru points out. 'He doesn't want to be. He wants to be here.'

'I don't see how he can get around it.'

'He's going to take the serum, once they get enough of it for him.' Toru wasn't sure that would be news, but Micheko registers some surprise. 'He wants to be here,' Toru says again, wondering if she can really understand it. 'It's a sacrifice. He's giving up a piece of himself. A big piece.'

'He might be happier,' Micheko says, through the frown dragging down the sides of her pinked mouth. 'Here with all his people.'

'Here with all of them, and unable to share what's happening with them.'

'He chose it,' Micheko points out, with an uneasy and oddly sullen hunch of her shoulders. Toru rubs her knees, debating whether he ought to call her out on it. That's kind of become his job, calling people on obvious Newtype issues, and he's not thrilled about it. Probably it will pass, eventually. As people get used to it. To him.

He doesn't really mistake Micheko's presence in his bed as acceptance. So he's not particularly surprised, either, when she gets to the point, two hours after complaining that none of the doors at Newtype Central lock and letting him knock her to the bed anyway.

She says, 'I'm transferring. It's a TDY to Munich.'

Toru inhales. 'Munich.'

'They're, um.' Her voice disappears. Her hand twines over his, but resists when he tries to hold. 'It's a thing I've been planning a while.'

'I remember. You said Po was helping you with an application.' He jerks his shoulders in a shrug. 'Later I thought you were lying about that. It was around the time she assigned you to watch me.'

Her eyes dip in apology, but she doesn't give it words. No words at all. So he strokes her knees, and says nothing more himself.

She reaches over his head, to the shelf screwed into the plasterboard at a slightly crooked angle. Of all the Newtypes currently living at Newtype Central, Toru is the only one who managed to bring any of his former life with him. A picture album, a couple of trinkets, his dog tags dated from his first day at Preventers Academy. Sally brought him his seashells only the day before. It was a gesture of reconciliation as much as a renegotiation. He'll never be back in her orbit, will never be back under her roof, but they have the memory of meaning something to each other.

So when Micheko sits back across his thighs holding the toy horse, Toru only smiles.

'Sun's,' he says, dragging a thumb down the horse's rough-carved mane. 'Never heard the story, but I'd guess her dad made it for her. He looked like a guy who's handy with a knife.'

Micheko glances up. 'You met her father? In India?'

He curses his slip. Bites his lip, the insides of both cheeks. 'Don't tell,' he asks, hopes. 'You have no reasons left to tell. Sun's gone, and everyone knows all my secrets now.'

Micheko swallows. Her tiny nod is his only answer. So he sits up on his elbows, covers the horse with his hand. Puts the other into her hair, to pull her down for his kiss. He leaves a final caress on her neck. A final brush of their lips. Wipes away a line of moisture beneath her eyes, not enough to be a real tear, but enough to make his chest tight.

 

**

 

'I swear she's ready to walk,' Toru argues. Beatriz hangs amiably from his fingertips, bouncing on chubby ankles and making absolutely no move to actually step. 'I swear she did it while you were sleeping.'

Iva's hollow cheeks turn a shy smile. 'She's months from walking,' she corrects him quietly. Sinnika brings her a plate of supper, and that inexperienced smile grows. 'Thank you,' she says, as Sinnika lays a warm hand on her shoulder and joins her in watching everyone play with the baby.

Toru gives Beatriz over to Jemmy, who swoops her in a giggling circle and then props her on her back for a squealing game of tickle. Toru uses his momentary freedom to hit the buffet. There's music playing from a radio, animated talk. Laughter. It's a long way from the grim and worried silence the Newtypes tend to show as their public face, specially around Normals. Despite his own tendency toward grim and worried moods, Toru smiles on seeing it. He grabs a fizzy water from the buffet and pops the tab. 

A passing itch on his scalp bothers him for a moment. He rubs his neck on his shoulder. It's not exactly tops gourmet in the buffet; to his experienced eye, it's cafeteria food, and it's not an inspiring selection tonight. Belgian food tends to run in browns and greys, and the roast is solidly in the middle of that spectrum. Toru pokes at the potatoes with a sigh that puffs his loose hair about his face.

A little bite on neck. Toru slaps at it, checks his palm. Nothing. It bites him again, and he twists to look, and-- oh.

_Quatre? Is that you?_

No answer. Toru leaves the buffet, ranging slowly around the room. _How is it you?_ he clarifies. _I didn't think you could do this, I thought it was just my talent. Oh. Except you did it that night on L1, didn't you? You got my name through._

He doesn't see anyone lurking in corners, and it occurs to him then that, if he is nearby, he's probably outside, at the limit of his range for Newtypes. Toru ducks out, down the hall and out the front door. He nods at the pair of Preventers stationed at the door. One of them nods back, and the other murmurs into the mic strung along her cheek, reporting his movement. Neither stop him as he heads out across the concrete yard.

The bug-bite sting warns him off when he tries to go left, so he goes right instead, bemused by the game they're playing and hoping it ends with something worth the effort. He finds Quatre at the far end of the helo fleet, sitting on a chock with his chin on his hand.

'I painted that,' Toru says, halting when their shadows touch.

'Painted what now?'

Toru points at Quatre's seat. 'That was my punishment for charging into Rzhevsky's dungeon thingie in London without waiting for backup.'

'You didn't do a very good job, if you don't mind my saying.'

'Hey now,' Toru objects mildly. 'So what's this about? Since when can you call to me like that?'

'Trying it out.' Quatre holds out a hand, waiting with it extended til Toru takes the hint and provides leverage for him to rise. 'It might take a bit more practise.'

'Might do. Were you trying to talk to me?'

'Yes, though you took the point.' Quatre brushes off his trousers. Cocks his head curiously. 'You've got a lovebite, just there.'

'Uh.' Toru rubs his collar, can't tell if it feels different. His tee won't cover it. 'Borrow that scarf?'

Quatre unwinds it and hands it over. 'I take it you've reconciled with the lovely Agent Walker.'

'Not as such.' Toru wraps the scarf about his neck. It's probably too hot to wear it for long, even in the cooler dusk. 'She's leaving,' he says. 'Temporary duty in Germany.'

Quatre's grimace is a little too raw for empathy. 'I'm sorry,' he says.

'You didn't do it.'

'Didn't I?'

'Maybe a little.' He clears his throat. 'Couple of bachelors, I guess.'

'You could go after her.'

'I could.' It's not as if it hasn't occurred. There's even a stupid bit of himself that might like that sort of grand romantic gesture; what's their relationship been but a series of things they shouldn't have done, propelled along by the joy of breaking the rules. And love. Maybe. He's not entirely sure, anymore. It's too confused, too wrapped up in the secrets they kept from each other. Right up til the last moment. 'I'm glad I told her how I feel,' Toru says then, shrugging away the enormity of it. 'But it's her choice, too, what to do with that.'

Quatre cups his cheek, just briefly, but the touch is tender. 'You're a good young man,' he says. 'You know I'm quite proud of you.'

'Yeah, I know.' He grins at Quatre's eyeroll. 'So, hey. What'd you want? Or was this just experimenting?'

'I've been working on something for you.' Quatre gestures, and Toru follows him toward the path. 'An experiment, most certainly, though I think we know by now we'll have some success. It's just taken me a while to get the pieces together.'

'You can probably just ask for stuff, you know. At this point I think Preventers are pretty invested in keeping you happy.'

'Believe it or not, I've taken exactly that tactic.' Quatre mimicks him, hands in his pockets as they walk. 'I've been trying to decide whether or not to surprise you. I regret... I regret springing it on you last time. That was more about what I was feeling than what was best for you. I'm trying to at least not repeat my mistakes.'

'What are you talking about?'

'It might have been easier on both of us if Sun were still here. Still. Difficulty is no reason not to do a thing what needs doing.'

Toru figures it out somewhere in the middle of that sentence. His gut turns over with a tingle. 'You mean, um.' He licks his lips. 'We're going to contact Mars again.'

'The spotlight's off, and I think we have a window before they'll start to truly monitor our activities. We do need Ishaq. I hope that's all right. You've said he knows.'

'Yeah.' Toru concentrates on making his feet work, since his mind hasn't quite caught up. 'Um, Quatre. We.'

'If you don't want to do it tonight, let's just talk about the how. We don't have to actually do anything til you're ready.'

'No. I'm ready.' It slips out of his mouth, but it's suddenly true. He bites his lower lip til it hurts, but it doesn't change the growing excitement in his belly. He laughs aloud. 'Yeah. I'm, um, I'm ready.'

'Then we'll do our best.'

Ishaq greets him at Quatre's room with a litre of cider. 'Quatre's explained?' he asks.

'Sort of.' Toru grins back. 'As much as he ever does, I guess.'

'I spent two decades talking solely to my four walls,' Quatre answers tartly, as he sheds his light summer jacket and whisks the blanket from his bed to the floor. 'Forgive my little conversational fillips. Pardon me, that'll be the door.'

'He's quick,' Ishaq comments.

'Who's quick?' Toru asks.

Quatre catches the latch just as the first knock lands. Ricciardi stands in the corridor, fist still upraised. 'Getting used to that,' he says, and raises his chin in greeting to the other men over Quatre's shoulder. 'Got what you asked for. I checked a couple of other things out to cover my tracks.'

'Clever man.' A plain manilla envelop changes hands. 'Thank you, Cass.'

'No skin off my nose. And I don't want to know what you're doing with it, either.' Ricciardi props an arm on the doorjamb. 'Promise me I'm not going to wind up behind bars for you, that's all.'

'A cautious man makes no promises he can't be sure of keeping.'

'I'll remember that the next time you come begging for a favour.'

'What's this?' Quatre takes the bottle as Ricciardi offers it, turning it to the light to read the label. 'Champagne?'

'Put it on ice now, it'll be ready when you've done whatever it is you're doing.'

'I'm not sure we've really planned a night of drinking.'

'Maybe a private celebration. I get off at nine.'

'Do you.'

Oh, God, Toru realises. They're flirting. Jeez. He screws up his nose. Ishaq snorts a laugh at him, smothers it when Quatre's head turns.

Quatre clears his throat. 'Thank you. I'll let you know if we're, er, if we're finished. By nine.'

'Good luck.' Ricciardi pitches his voice a little louder. 'See you around, Craft. Mr Khosa.'

There's a faint stain of red on Quatre's cheeks as he shuts the door. He stuffs the champagne hurriedly into the small refrigerator under the window. 'I would very much appreciate it if we say absolutely nothing about that, at all.'

'Your business.' Toru unscrews the cap on the cider and swigs. 'I, um, I just didn't know he's gay.'

'I truly cannot think of anything worse than giving you the sex talk just now.' Ishaq is openly grinning at them both. Quatre loftily ignores it, getting the light, dropping them into a dim lit only by the purpling dusk behind the window curtains. He pops the links on his shirtcuffs and rolls up his sleeves. 'Moving on. Please.'

'Um, yeah. So what are we doing, exactly?'

'Taking a page from your book, Toru.' Ishaq claims a spot on the floor, and Toru sits facing him. Quatre completes their triangle. 'It's a bit like what we did in London. Combining our abilities.'

'And going a bit beyond those boundaries, even.' Quatre tears open the manilla envelope. Inside is an evidence bag, still taped shut. He tears that open, too, carefully not touching the object inside. He tumbles it gently onto the blanket in the open space framed by their knees.

'My father's medal.' Toru reaches for it, and stops himself. 'It's probably been touched by a dozen people by now, in the chain of custody. That'll complicate your reading, Ishaq?'

'Who bagged it?'

'I did.'

'And it likely stayed in the bag from the time you did that til the time it was checked out tonight by Agent Ricciardi.' Ishaq reaches, not quite touching it, considering the problem. 'It's not ideal. But the damage is limited, at least.'

'Each of us has a role in this.' Quatre takes a large swallow of the cider, wiping his mouth neatly after. Ishaq takes the next, and Toru another when it's passed to him. 'Ishaq is the piece we were missing when we tried this before. I can reach Mars. You can speak to whomever we find there. But Ishaq can help us locate them without wearing ourselves out.'

Toru wipes sweating palms on his jeans. 'Okay.'

'We avoid a dangerous strain. If it doesn't work tonight, we'll try again when we've recovered. No risks. No endangering the others. And no endangering ourselves. We all agree to these terms.'

'Agreed,' Ishaq says, with Toru's soft echo. Quatre seals it with a final drink, and the cider makes the rounds once more before Ishaq sets it aside.

'Whatever happens,' Quatre says then. 'Toru. Surely some of it won't be-- I just thought, you would want to know. You deserve to know.'

'Thanks.' Toru manages a jagged, nervous smile. 'Thank you. Both of you. This is more than I'd ever thought I'd have.'

'Hands,' Quatre says then. Ishaq gives a shaky sigh when they link, but Quatre squeezes, and Ishaq nods. 'Toru. You're the exponent. We'll reach farther than we could without you. And you'll be able to piggyback us. Bring us into meditation. We need the base state to begin.'

Toru closes his eyes. It's been a while since he's properly meditated, but the calm is there when he reaches for it. And more than the calm. The little gold ball of warmth and light. He makes his eyes like stone, makes his body weightless, makes his heartbeat recede into a faint thrum. And knows without looking, knows by the feel of it, that the other two men are with him, floating on the rhythm of his slow breaths.

'Ishaq,' Quatre whispers. 'The medal.'

Ishaq breaks from Quatre, not Toru. But Toru feels it. It's like an unbalancing. Ishaq leans forward. His hand hovers over the medal a moment, as if he's steeling himself. Quatre's hands tighten on both of them. Ishaq picks it up.

And Toru fragments into a dozen pieces. The factory where the first human hands sorted chunks of ore for melting. The line worker who selected the finished product for polishing and stamping. The cadet who'd laid out the medals on the bright white tablecloth in the auditorium, the general who'd lifted it to pin to a young man's chest. His father, young and proud and strong, buffing the medal with a kerchief before laying it in a display case. His father, older and bowed with strain and lined with grief, grabbing the medal and stuffing it into a duffel with clothes and a picture frame and a love letter and a broken sherd of shined steel mask. Epyon, Libra, a scream into the vast emptiness of Space, and then... and then...

'I can't,' Ishaq croaks. 'I know there's more. I just... I can't.'

'Toru.'

'What do you want me to do?' Toru renews his grip. The darkness of Space, and, and. And--

And Earth. The Battle of Kashagan Oil Fields, fighting in a stolen mobile suit. The furious dreadful burn of defeat. Earth, in a prison cell, separated from everyone he loves, refusing to speak in his own defence. The trial. The roar of a crowd calling for his death and demanding his freedom. A war that wasn't, a war that's over now with no winners, only losers. A letter, penned in his best script, to the child he will never see again. A letter no-one will deliver, not the court-appointed lawyer, not the prison guards, not the driver of the armoured car that carries him to the shuttle port under heavy guard. Earth, the last glimpse he'll ever have, receding in the window, leaving behind everything he's ever fought for, everything he's ever lived for. He holds his wife's hand, tucks her head of soft dark hair beneath his chin. And-- and-- and.

'It's too far.'

'Ivan Rzhevsky.'

Toru senses the change, though he never opens his eyes. No longer Ishaq's ability. Ivan Rzhevsky's, searching, searching, honing in on faint signals that summon them like bells in the wind. The two of them, Quatre and Ishaq, stronger as they work in concert. He can see how Quatre does it, more precise than Ishaq, the way Quatre immediately discards the soft gold auras of the Newtypes on base, the way he sends them soaring past Europe and the continent and the atmosphere, flings them out into Space, Ishaq right behind him, Toru the power. Quatre's the one who carries them across that vast distance, the fierce joy of flight as they vault and flip and tumble and streak toward the Red Planet. Ishaq's the one who brings them to its surface, honing suddenly and keenly on, yes, buildings, buildings rising up out of the dust, a biodome, no, three biodomes, and all-terrain vehicles arrayed around them, the remnants of the Terraforming Project that had been turned over to the exiles. And... the graves.

Toru takes a deep breath. _This is Thorulf Peacecraft,_ he calls, projecting his silent voice over that strange dusty tableau. _There's a group of us on Earth. Newtypes and children of Newtypes. Can anyone hear me?_

They must have been waiting for it. The response is almost immediate, not like last time. He can feel them, with Ishaq and Quatre getting him closer than before. A dozen, maybe even twenty of those warm gold glows that signify Newtypes, and more besides, the nearly hundred people who were exiled and now-- his heart seizes-- children. He can feel them, young and curious, and some of them are like him, Newtykes, he can feel them as his very pores respond. The Mars community is surviving, it's thriving even, they're alive.

And then the eyes. He'd been hoping, he'd been hoping. He tries again to breathe, his throat too tight, his chest a thumping echo of his frantic heart. _Mama,_ he says.

This far away she's nothing but a blur, a faint impression of a woman without details, but he knows those eyes. He's sure of it. And Quatre gives her voice, his tenor ticking just slightly higher, smoother, and with his own eyes closed Toru can almost think it's her. He's giddy, his eyes sting with tears behind his tightly shut lids.

'Oh, my darling boy,' she whispers, and Toru goes numb in the hands and flushed and so happy he can't even answer her.

 _I'm here. I'm well. I'm-- I--_ Too many thoughts, all fighting to be first. _The last of the Newtypes are here,_ he tells her finally. _Quatre Winner, and Ishaq-- Ajmal-- Heero Yuy is still alive, and safe, and well. We're all well. Together. So much has happened, I don't even know what to say._ He shakes his head, to clear it, to stop himself babbling. He centres himself, and asks it. _Is Papa there too?_

Quatre's fingers tighten on his, and he knows, then. 'I'm sorry,' Quatre says, his mother says, and the ache in that is old, an old grief made new because she could never know he'd be sharing it with her. Toru bites his lip, but the hot tears in his eyes break free, dripping down his cheeks.

_How? How did he die?_

'He died well, Thorulf. Saving a life. It was a long time ago, now, years...'

Years, and he'd never known. Considered it was possible, in an abstract way safely distant from his own life, from anything he could do anything about, but his armour falls like tin foil at hearing it. Years. His father has been dead for years. No wonder Ishaq hadn't been able to get anything from medal. It's so unfair. It's so unbelievably unfair. If he'd given in about Newtypes sooner, if he'd known how to do this, he could have spoken to him again, could have known him, not spent all those years hating a man he couldn't even really picture, and now there'd be no chance.

It takes great effort to wall away the pain. There will be time later, and he doesn't know how long they can keep this up. _Who else?_ he asks finally. _Did you lose anyone else? We see the graves._

Quatre's voice trembles as he relays it. 'Dorothy,' he says. 'Not long after your father.' Quatre's grip on his hand creaks with the pressure he's applying. 'Sonya and Heinrich. Alen. Bishop and Mikel. Wufei...' His voice cracks, wavers. 'Thorulf. Thorulf, tell me about you. I want to know about you, your life.'

 _I go by Toru,_ he says, finding himself shy about that, but senses nothing but gentle acceptance from her. _I was a Preventer. I wanted to be like-- I wanted to be like you and Papa. I'm not one now, though. I'm here with the Newtypes. We're figuring it out... there's not many left. I want to do my part to help. We're learning more about what we can do, what I can do. All just in the last months, really. There's... there's so much to tell you. I don't even know where to begin._

'But you can do this now? How? We thought there'd never be a way.'

 _We did it together. And we can do it again. As much as we can._ Til we get caught, he thinks to himself, and in a weak moment of worry his eyes fill up again, but he refuses to let that burden this stolen time with fear of the future. Quatre and Ishaq hold him tight, squeeze his hands, and their strength and support buoy him. They did this for him, and he's not going to waste it. _I want to know you,_ he says. _I hope that's all right._

'Toru.' Wonder, wonder and a bright laugh he's always thought he might just barely remember from her, and he thrills to hear it. 'My darling boy, I can't bear to wait.'


	30. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'He's not my father,' Sun says._

'You great idiot, let me off this death trap.' Quatre's laugh is hitched with the bumps of the bike's wheels skidding over dirt ruts. 'Hazard, you bloody fool. You're supposed to brake--'

Toru uncaps the lemonade, pouring into the sippy cup. 'Beatriz,' he calls. 'Come drink. And please stop touching that frog, we're running out of wipes.'

'Children are curious,' Iva remonstrates him, from her lazy sprawl on the picnic blanket. 'I'd rather she play with the frogs than with bullets.'

'I feel like we can aim for something cleaner and less dangerous than either of those options.' Toru catches the two-year-old as she whizzes past on sturdy chubby legs, and gets in a good swipe to the grass stains on her palms before she's off again, cup clutched in one hand. Toru settles back on the blanket with an apple, propping himself on his side. The sun is wonderfully warm, there's not a cloud in sight, and he's getting sleepy. An afternoon nap would be the perfect indulgence.

Ricciardi whips his motorbike around a sharp turn, and this time Quatre does fall off, but he goes down laughing, so Toru doesn't bother to get up and help. They spend a lot of time brushing each other off of dirt, sneaking in little whispers and one shy kiss, for all their audience couldn't care less about the display. Toru pretends to be absorbed in his apple, and Iva is engaged in Jemmy's demonstration of knitting. Ishaq's barely raised his head out of his book for an hour, engrossed. Toru blinks heavy eyes and angles to see the cover.

'That the new biography?' he asks idly.

Ishaq shows him the front. 'Plenty of juicy tiddly bits. The Specials invented their own encryption cipher, did you know? A substition cipher based on _Tamberlaine the Great._ '

'What's Tember-- that?'

'A play from the Renaissance. Didn't you study literature at all in school?'

'I regularly despair of Toru's education in culture and arts,' Quatre quips, finally joining them. He sheds his light cardigan and settles in just his tee and denims. Ricciardi is the only one out-of-place, in his Preventers' casuals of suit trousers and button-down, but Iva sits up to serve them both a lemonade, and they issue the same grateful thanks in unison. Toru rolls his eyes.

'This was a lovely idea,' Quatre says then. 'I'm glad you dragged me along.'

'You're starting to get a little pale,' Iva observes. 'I can see the trees straight through your skin.'

'Have you checked in with Sally?' Toru asks, noting for himself that Iva's joke is not entirely exaggeration. 'Weren't you due for an appointment last week?'

'Yes, mother hen, I was, and I went, and the doctor even gave me a lolly.'

'They're worried about long-term use,' Ricciardi confides, and takes Quatre's elbow to his gut with a little 'oomph.' 'You'd tell them anyway.'

'How kind of you to spare the effort.' Quatre shrugs away Toru's concern, the long look Iva and Jemmy exchange. 'I'm perfectly healthy. Even my cholesterol is a shining example. Dr Stolz promised he'd frame my results.'

'You trust the accuracy?' Jemmy asks frankly.

'We'll not start that again,' Quatre replies firmly. At his side, Ricciardi says nothing, though he sucks in his cheeks as if he's holding something back. He drinks his lemonade with his eyes on the flock of birds passing overhead. For his part, Quatre puts an end to all of it, calling for Beatriz. She rockets back and throws herself happily into the lap of her favourite uncle, who gleefully spoils her by skipping right past chicken and fruit and going straight for the cake.

'Anders and Dawes are due back this afternoon,' Ishaq says. 'Did you hear how their run went, Cass?'

'No major blips,' Ricciardi answers. 'That new kid, the one fresh out of Academy--'

'Arkwright,' Jemmy supplies.

'Whatever. Total ass. If Dawes doesn't write her up, I will. Discharged her gun on a subway platform.'

'That's not a major blip?' Toru tries to tempt Beatriz out of Quatre's arms with a candied date. She leans out just far enough to snatch it, and returns to her snuggle. Quatre laughs at him.

'At least she's got aim. Killed a pigeon.'

'They're getting sloppy in Academy,' Toru says. 'There's no way they would have graduated someone who couldn't control their impulses like that. Shouldn't, anyway.'

'That's what happens when you try to grow numbers too fast. You loosen the standards, you get the crazies, the crybabies, the ones who just like guns, and the incompetents.'

'You should look into becoming an instructor,' Quatre says. He tucks Beatriz's head beneath his bearded chin as he combs her bright hair back into its clip. 'You don't need to be an active agent for that, am I correct? You've got field experience half those graduates would die for.'

'Me?' Toru muches his own candied date. 'I don't know. I'm not sure about that idea.'

Ricciardi actually considers it, drumming his fingers on Quatre's shoulder. 'He's right,' the agent concludes. 'There's a staffing shortage. And you'd be able to coach them in dealing with the Newtypes, instead of us trying to crash-course the newbies once they're assigned.'

'I don't know,' Toru says again, not too subtley trying to encode that with 'let it go, please', and Quatre sighs, but no-one presses him. Toru finally gets Beatriz to come to him, though it's not long before she's yawning, and Iva lays back with her daughter beneath their canopy. The buzz of insects overlays the warmth of the afternoon, and Toru doesn't fight his heavy eyelids. A passing itch in his nose bothers him for a moment, but he rubs it away and leaves his hand laying over his eyes to block the light. He falls into a pleasant almost-doze, content just to be still.

'Quat? Quat, Jesus.'

'Water! Get him water.'

He wakes abruptly at the thud of someone tripping over his outstretched legs. He rolls to his knees, as Ishaq scrambles to pass him. It's Quatre. Flat on his back in the grass, everyone crowding around him.

'Give him air,' Toru says, launching himself into the middle of that. 'Someone get back to the barracks, we need a medic. Quatre?' He feels for a pulse first in the wrist and then at Quatre's neck, finding it thready and too quick. Quatre's pale as a ghost. 'Quatre, you fainted. Tell me my name, okay.'

Fingers pluck weakly at his sleeve. 'Toru.'

'Good. Prop up his feet, Ishaq. Are you dizzy, Quatre? Nauseated?'

'My head.' His pupils are dilated, huge swimming black with just a thin ring of pained blue. Headache, Toru realises, surprised. It's been years since Quatre had one of his migraines, gone the way of all his other Newtype-related symptoms after he adopted the serum-- lord, if it is the serum, he'll murder Dr Stolz for lying about it--

'Toru.' Quatre manages a thick inhale. 'Toru, they're-- they're--'

'Is he all right?'

Toru wipes his itchy nose on his sleeve. 'Can we get him that water?' he asks, pitching it at whoever asked the question, and only belatedly looks up, when Quatre pushes a finger at his chin and forcibly turns his head. Toru drops his jaw. 'Sun?'

It is her. Two years older than the last time he saw her, her hair is short, now, loose waves that fall just short of the collar of her coat-- the coat he'd bought her. She wears boots and heavy canvas trousers caked in old layers of mud, her knapsack has patches with dozens of flags and city emblems, she's tan and gorgeous and he stumbles to his feet, to grab her up in a hug so fierce that neither of them can breathe.

'He fainted,' Toru remembers to say, shaking his head. 'He's--' And he stops, because he sees who's standing behind Sun, and he has no idea what to do about it except panic. 'You brought your father to a Preventers base?' he hisses at her.

'He's not my father,' Sun says.

'He's not Heero at all,' Quatre snaps, sitting up cautiously with Ricciardi's help. Both hands press, shaking, to his temples. 'He's not... he's not _our_ Heero.'

Toru gapes at him. There are differences, he thinks, but it's been a long time since he met Yuy, and people changed with time, but there's one thing no number of years would change. Heero Yuy had shot himself in the head at age eighteen, and the damage had left him blind in one eye. Whoever this man is, he is very clearly sighted, and watching them all with great reserve.

'How?' Toru demands. 'I mean-- who?'

Whoever he is, he drops his pack at the edge of the blanket, and crouches beside Quatre. When he offers his hand, Quatre stares at it in dread as if it might burn him. He's cringing as he takes it in his. They stand, together. He touches Quatre's beard, as Quatre touches the lapel of his coat, dragging down at the fabric to reveal the edge of a tattoo in faded black. Quatre shakes his head, disbelief, amazement.

The man who can't be Heero Yuy, and yet inescapably is, covers Quatre's hand with his. 'I'm sorry,' he says roughly. 'I didn't mean to hurt you.'

'No,' Quatre says, dazed.

'You look-- you look good.' He lets go all at once, rocking back a step, and Ricciardi is quick to replace him, but Quatre stays upright, for all he clenches his fist on Ricciardi's arm. Not-Heero takes the rest of them in with a glance, and re-focuses on Quatre, resolve in the squaring of his shoulders, the straightening of his spine.

'We need help,' he says evenly. 'The girl says you would listen, at least.'

No-one responds to that immediately. Toru feels eyes on him, and realises they're all watching him, waiting for his lead. He coughs to clear his throat, and focuses on the one thing that needs an answer, stat.

'We?' he asks.

'The Federated Colonial Resistance,' Not-Heero says. 'Those of us who are left, anyway.'

'Right,' Toru says. 'Um. The-- Federated--' He squeezes a tingle of numb nerves out of his fingers. He tries to catch Quatre's eyes, and gets just a single miserably bewildered shrug. 'Right,' he repeats. 'Agent Ricciardi, I think-- I think we're going to need to speak to the Director. Um... welcome, I guess, Mr Yuy.'


End file.
